


Anam Cara

by Annaelle, kaiwrites, Queerily_kai



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types
Genre: (Steve is a Bossy Bottom), 1930s, 1940s, Boys In Love, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Canon-Typical Violence, CapRBB 2018, Captain America Reverse Big Bang 2018, Depression, Eugenics, F/F, Fanart, Gen, Inspired by Fanart, M/M, Period Typical Attitudes, Period-Typical Homophobia, Pining, Post-Serum Steve Rogers, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Pre-World War II Bucky Barnes/Steve Rogers, Reincarnation, Soulmate AU, Steve Rogers Needs a Hug, Steve-centric, Temporary Character Death, Unreliable Narrator, World War II, author has no regrets, embedded art
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-24
Updated: 2018-06-25
Packaged: 2019-05-27 14:38:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 29,716
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15026834
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Annaelle/pseuds/Annaelle, https://archiveofourown.org/users/kaiwrites/pseuds/kaiwrites, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Queerily_kai/pseuds/Queerily_kai
Summary: Sarah had smiled at him and rubbed her thumb over his cheek a little. “I know that you love Bucky. I know that he’s real, and that he is your very best friend. But…” Steve had frowned in confusion a little, but had not interrupted her, because he adored his mam more than anyone else in the world, even Bucky. “…You mustn’t talk about or to him like he’s here with you in public anymore, a leanbh.”—Soulmates are so rare, the world has decided they don’t exist at all. Steve begs to differ.STUCKY SOULMATE AU





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! 
> 
> I'm very excited to share this work with everyone here! It was inspired by Kai's fantastic artwork, and it's been a pleasure to work together :D 
> 
> Of course, I could not have done this without my darling Juulna, who has dragged me through writing this, kicking and screaming the whole time. I love you, doll. You're the best. 
> 
> This work does have a second part, which will be added sometime tomorrow. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy! 
> 
> Much love,  
> Annaelle

  
  


#  Anam Cara 

##  Part I

##  You are joined in an ancient and eternal union with humanity   
that cuts across all barriers of time, convention, philosophy and definition...  
you have arrived at that most sacred place: home.  
—John O’Donohue

 

_Once, there was a woman named Yseult, seventh daughter of a seventh son—a King who dared not leave his lands. It had been prophesized he would lose a child to a curse older than time should they venture beyond their borders, and the King took such words with sober acknowledgement. For many a year, they lived in peace, and the King’s children grew up with great beauty and kindness._

_…all of the King’s daughters were blessed with gifts, but none so as Princess Yseult, who had been gifted with the ability to heal any ailment. …The day Yseult came of age, many a suitor sought to claim her hand. Amongst their number came a Prince Tristan from Cornwall, who sought the Princess’s hand for his guardian, King Mark of Cornwall._

_It is said the Princess wept upon first laying eyes upon Tristan, proclaiming him the mirror of her soul and the face the_ Tuatha Dé Danann _had shown only to her. It is said she proclaimed Prince Tristan_ anam cara _before he had spoken a single word. It is said the Prince responded with similar sentiment, falling to his knees before the King to beg him for Yseult’s hand._

_…the King, though saddened and fearful for his child, allowed the match and gave Yseult and Tristan his blessing to travel to Cornwall to ask for Prince Tristan’s guardian’s blessing._

_Many things are spoken to have passed during the journey to Cornwall, but known is only that King Mark of Cornwall sentenced both his ward and his former-bride-to-be to death for their betrayal to him and their lack of honour and strength of will._

_…yet despite the strength of their love and the depth of their conviction, Yseult conceded to King Mark’s proposal in return for her family’s safety. The lovers were parted for many a year until Tristan was grievously injured and sent for Yseult, pleading for her healing hands to save his life. It is said that he asked for white sails to be raised on the ship that would carry her back to him should she agree, and black sails should she refuse._

_…through tragedy of deep jealousy, Tristan’s new companion, also named Yseult, but bearing the title ‘of the White Hands’, told him the ships sailed black sails, breaking the weakened man’s heart and sending him to his death. When Yseult of Cornwall discovered his body, it is said she cried for seven days and seven nights, before she too perished of heart ache, thus fulfilling the prophecy her father had received before her birth._

_The lovers were never to be parted in death as they were in life, and when a hazel tree grew from Tristan’s grave and honeysuckle from Yseult’s, it is said the two entwined so tightly, they were never to be pulled apart by human hands again._

—Tristan ac Yseult, Thomas of Brittania, 1160-1165

_—————————_

### Brooklyn, New York, United States of America  
1925

Steve was little still, recovering from a bout of pneumonia, and feeling _quite_ cross at being deprived of the opportunity to go outside and play hide and seek, like the neighbor boys Fintan and Gilroy. Steve didn’t particularly _like_ the neighbor boys—and he was pretty sure that feeling was _entirely_ mutual—but they provided good cover for who he was _actually_ playing with.

Steve remembered the conversation he’d had with his _mam_ about the necessity to have such a cover.

“Steve, _a leanbh_ ,” his _mam_ had said, moving his sweaty bangs from his forehead tenderly. “I need to talk to you about… about Bucky, okay?” Steve remembered he had perked right up, because Bucky was one of his _favorite_ things to talk about. Later, he realized his _mam_ had been tired and afraid, and that there had been bags under her eyes, and that his connection with Bucky must have been more terrifying than she’d ever told him.

“Okay, _mam_ ,” Steve had nodded eagerly, because he hadn’t seen Bucky in a few days and it always made his skin itch a little when it had been too long.

Sarah had smiled at him and rubbed her thumb over his cheek a little. “I know that you love Bucky. I know that he’s real, and that he is your very best friend. But…” Steve had frowned in confusion a little, but had not interrupted her, because he _adored_ his _mam_ more than anyone else in the world, even Bucky. “…You mustn’t talk about or to him like he’s here with you in public anymore, _a leanbh_.”

He’d been _shocked_ when she said the words, though said shock had very easily given way to anger, and he had pushed back against the very _idea_ of not being allowed to talk about Bucky. “No!” he’d shouted, angry tears burning in his eyes, shaking his head mulishly.

“Why can’t I talk about Bucky, _mam_? He’s my bestest friend in the whole world! I don’t wanna hide him. What if he thinks I don’t love him anymore, _mam_? I don’t want him to think that. He’s my… _mo anam cara_. Like the stories you told me.”

He remembered the little huff of frustration his _mam_ let out before she spoke again.

“You and I know that, _a leanbh_ ,” she’d continued gently. “But we are in America now, and most of these people don’t know our stories, and don’t believe in them when they do know them.”

Steve had scoffed and wrinkled his nose. “That’s stupid, _mam_.”

His _mam_ had chuckled and nodded, skirt pooling around her where she kneeled on the floor before him. “It is, honey. It is stupid, but it is the way it is. People here… they see only legends and fairytales in our history. It’s foreign and exotic to them, but it is reality to _us_. To you. To Bucky.”

Steve had looked at his _mam_ with wide eyes, because he’d understood what she was saying, but not _why_ she was saying it.

“I came here with your father because we wanted to provide you with a life we couldn’t give you back in Ireland. A life that wouldn’t have been possible in the Old World. We never abandoned the Old Faiths, but we had to move with the times. America is different. America, for all the opportunities it provides, also tends to look down on and push down those that are different, and those that do not fit their idea of what someone should be.”

Steve remembered he’d pouted fiercely and had started to protest before she’d made him shut up with a single fiery look.

“It doesn’t mean we accept it, or that we don’t fight back; but it means that we have to be _smart_.” Her eyes had been glinting with unshed tears, but there had been an iron resolve in her blue eyes that Steve admired even today. “It means we have to be careful to make sure people can’t take that which is _ours_. And you, _a stór_ , are mine, as Bucky is yours and you are his.”

“But why does it matter to them?” Steve had demanded, pouting at his mother in consternation. “Bucky and I don’t hurt anyone. We just wanna be best friends, _mam_.”

The look in his _mam_ ’s eye had been compassionate, but heartbreaking. “I know that, _an leanbh_. But there are bad people in the world. You know this, Steve. They might try to take advantage of you, of Bucky, the bond you two share. They’ll try to use it or destroy it. You’re old enough that they won’t just write it off as the silly imaginations of a child anymore. They’ll try to exploit you, and see you as _weak_ because you don’t _look_ strong.”

“But I _am_ strong,” Steve had insisted, crossing his arms over his chest stubbornly. “Bucky said so. And you too, _mam_. It’s not _fair_.”

“No, it’s not,” his _mam_ had said sadly, patting his cheek lightly. “But it has always been that way with our people, _a leanbh_. We have always been pushed down, have always been persecuted. But our strength, _your_ strength, too, is in survival. We have weathered the storms, we have kept our heads down… and looked for our opportunities to rise. And rise we have, when the time came.”

Steve had been struck by the seriousness in his mother’s voice, but at that moment Bucky had appeared behind her, and Steve had been too excited to see his friend again to really _think_ about what she’d said until _later_.

 _Later_ , when his _mam_ had left for work and Bucky had stayed with him, curled up on Steve’s small bed with him, no more than a hand’s breadth separating them. They’d never touched—they couldn’t. They hadn’t ever tried, but Steve _knew_. He knew that he wouldn’t be able to touch Bucky until the day they met, as it was always said in the stories _mam_ told him.

Bucky was nine, only a year and a half older than Steve, but he was much bigger, with broader shoulders and longer legs already. He looked so _serious_ , sometimes, that Steve was afraid Bucky would grow up too fast and forget Steve. After all, Bucky had three little sisters to care for along with his own _mam_ , after a difficult birth to a stillborn son the previous year. Steve only had his _mam_.

Steve knew Bucky had other responsibilities, and that he didn’t need to be worrying about Steve all the time, but he couldn’t deny that he was always a little happy when Bucky _did_ show up to see him.

“I didn’t mean to interrupt you and your ma,” Bucky’d said contritely. “It seemed important.”

Steve shrugged a little. “She said I ain’t supposed to talk about you to other people no more.” He was still deeply unhappy about the entire conversation, and he hoped Bucky would _understand_ that. Bucky _always_ understood him, and he always helped Steve feel better.

Bucky’s face creased into a frown before he nodded. “Yeah. I came to talk ‘bout that too, Stevie.”

Steve pouted and curled in on himself a little. “Oh,” he’d said. “Are you gonna say it’s for the best too?”

Bucky just shook his head and sighed. “Just… D’you remember me telling you about Ms. Harel from down the street?”  

Ms. Harel was a woman who’d moved onto Bucky’s street when they’d been seven and five-and-a-half respectively, who had been the first person other than Steve’s _mam_ and Bucky’s little sister to know about and believe in their Bond. She was a kind woman, with white-blonde hair and eyes such pale gray they almost appeared as white as her hair. Bucky had accidentally told her about Steve when he’d been seven, helping her across the street like his momma had taught him to.

He’d been as surprised as Steve when she believed him and confided in them about her own _bashert_ , as she called him. Bucky had told Steve it meant the same to her as _Anam Cara_ did to them, but that Ms. Harel would never be able to meet her _bashert_ because they were somewhere far away.

They, as Ms. Harel had explained, did not even speak the same language.

Steve hoped he and Bucky would be able to see each other one day, though. Indiana and New York were a _long_ distance apart, but not so far that Steve wouldn’t be able to earn enough money one day to take the train there and meet Bucky, like they’d talked about so many times.

Steve nodded and looked at Bucky curiously, unsure why the subject of Ms. Harel would sadden Bucky so. She was one of Bucky’s favorite people, precisely because he was able to talk about and to Steve when he was around her too. He’d even seen her talk to her own _bashert_.

“They took her away yesterday,” Bucky said shakily. “And father Fairbairn talked about it in church today. They said… they said that because she talked to her _bashert_ , she was confirmed imbecilic in the hospital, that the law said she had to be taken away and sterilized. Billy Cockran said that means she was crazy, and that they locked her up and threw away the key,” Bucky whispered, his voice trembling when he finished, and Steve could tell he felt a little sick too.

It was a feeling he felt mirrored in his own body.

Ms. Harel was a lovely young woman, even Steve’s _mam_ said so, and Steve hated thinking of her locked away in a hospital room not unlike the one his _mam_ had made him stay in the last time he had gotten sick with pneumonia.

“I don’t want ‘em to do that to you, Stevie,” Bucky whispered urgently, eyes shiny with tears. “Or to me. I gotta take care of Becca, Lizzie and Gracie with mom. We gotta be more careful.”

Steve flinched, because he didn’t _care_ that people didn’t understand, or that they didn’t believe the same things his _mam_ had taught him and Bucky. He just wanted to be able to _talk_ to Bucky whenever he wanted, without having to be afraid for his best friend in the whole world.

He didn’t want Bucky to be afraid, though, and he could tell that Bucky was _really_ afraid.

“What if they’re right, Buck?” He whimpered, curling in on himself a little. The very thought of this made him feel sick and tiny and worthless, but what… what if it was all in his head, like the people in Bucky’s church seemed to think? “What if it… What if it ain’t real? Are you real, Buck?”

Bucky smiled at him, despite the gravity of the moment, and nodded. “I feel pretty real, pal.”

“Tell me things about you again,” Steve said stubbornly, because he _wanted_ this to be real. He _loved_ Bucky, just like he loved his _mam_ , and he didn’t want to have to pretend he didn’t.

“I’m from Indiana,” Bucky complied immediately, propping his head up on his hand as he looked at Steve. “I have three baby sisters and a momma and a dad. You’re my best friend. I wanna be famous and marry Barbara Stanwyck when I grow up—a real Brooklyn gal, Stevie, so we can live close together. How about you?”

Steve looked at Bucky, blinking slowly before he admitted quietly, “I just wanna meet you when we grow up, Buck. That’s all I want.”

Bucky was quiet for a moment before he replied, “Me too, Stevie. Me too. Promise me you’ll be careful so we can do that when we’re older, okay?”

“Okay, Bucky,” he promised solemnly. “If you think it’s best. I promise I won’t tell anyone but _mam_ about you. You gotta promise you won’t tell anyone but Becca either, though, and you hafta promise you’ll be real careful too, Buck.” He lay his hand on the bed between them, his pale, thin fingers less than an inch from Bucky’s broader, tanner ones. It was the closest they could get to touching without losing the connection, and they didn’t try to push the boundary often.

Steve felt it was the right moment to try, though.

“I promise,” Bucky whispered, soft and sure, pressing his fingers just that little bit closer to Steve. “We’re gonna be okay, Stevie. You and I… We’re gonna make it. I’ll make sure.”

Steve looked into Bucky’s pretty grey-blue eyes and nodded.

He believed him.

_—————_ _———_

_This Sacred Congregation, which is responsible for defending the doctrine regarding faith and morals throughout the Catholic world, has been examining with careful attention the dissemination of voices new and old which seek the acknowledgement of the existence of so-called soulmate bonds by the Magisterium of the Church._

_These opinions are widespread still, though oft dismissed as fairy-tales and myths of a forgotten time, and appear more oft even in seminaries, in Catholic school, and even in the practices in ecclesiastical tribunals of this or that Diocese._

_Furthermore, these opinions, together with other doctrinal or pastoral explanations, have been advanced here and there as a pretext to justify abuses against the current discipline regarding the adherence to the Sacraments for those who live in an irregular union. Such unions include those of mixed ethnicities, those practising sodomy, and the union of different religions._

_Many of these unions defend their existence as righteous and true by virtue of being born of so-called soulmate bonds, which allow the affected to glimpse God’s intended match for them before seeing each other in person._

_Therefore, this Sacred Dicastery examined this problem extensively and consulted the teachings of old to ensure its mandate, which was issued during its Plenary Meeting of 1931, would reflect the Church’s true teachings. … states that all those entrusted with teaching religion in schools or institutes of any grade, as well as those who serve as officials in ecclesiastical tribunals, remain faithful to the doctrine of the Church on the sanctity of marriage and the necessity of following the Sacraments._

_Bonds such as described are, according to this Sacred Dicastery’s findings, simply remnants of myths and stories fabricated by pagans to undermine the Church’s teachings. … is possible, however, for a pious man and wife, joined in holy matrimony, to become soul mates. Such bonds form with time and are a gift from God to bless the most faithful and devoted of his followers._

_Regarding the administration of the Sacraments, local Ordinaries should strive, on one hand, to encourage the observance of the discipline in force in the Church, and on the other hand, to act so that pastors of souls show particular solicitude toward those who live in irregular union, seeking to resolve these cases through the use of the approved practices of the Church in the internal forum, as well as other just means._

_Communicating these findings to you, Holy Father, with devoted respect, I remain yours._

_—Franjo Cardinal Seper (prefect) & Jérôme Hamer, O.P. (secretary), Rome, April 11, 1931_

————— _———_

Steve _was_ careful.

And if being careful led to him occasionally taking out his anger and frustration and _fear_ about not being able to talk to Bucky so often anymore out on whatever bully he stumbled upon…

Well, that was no one’s business but Steve’s.

And Bucky’s, of course, when he fussed over Steve’s bruises and broken noses like an overprotective mother hen, refusing to leave until Steve’s ma returned from her shift and had cleaned whatever cuts he managed to scrounge up during the day to Bucky’s satisfaction.

Steve hated it.

He also relished in every minute.

————— _———_

### Coney Island Beach, Brooklyn, New York, United States of America  
November 1933

Coney Island Beach made a cold, dreary image from where Steve sat, huddled beneath the pier in a hand-me-down woolen sweater from Jerry McDougall from down the hall, sketchpad and stubs of charcoal perched on his lap. It was raining ever so slightly, and though Steve could probably stand to get a little wet without getting pneumonia—again—Bucky was with him, and no one was more relentless about getting Steve to take care of himself than Bucky was.

Steve would have put up more of a fight about the whole thing, but Bucky’s visits had been sparse since Steve’s birthday in July, after which Bucky had started going steady with a girl back in Indiana.

Steve didn’t think about it too hard, and just put up a token protest when Bucky pestered him until Steve conceded and set up a little comfortable nest beneath the pier. After he’d settled and had indulged Bucky’s relentless quest to ensure Steve was feeling warm and comfortable and dry and his back wasn’t aching, he’d watched as his friend stretched out on the damp sand, entirely unbothered by the light drizzle of rain that he insisted would make Steve catch another bout of pneumonia.

Steve didn’t generally _mind_ that Bucky worried about him, but sometimes it _grated_ on him. He knew Bucky would never look down on him, would never read the little plaques that said Steve and people like him were born to be a burden on the rest and believe them, but there had been so many people in Steve’s life who _had_ that the fear he would one day had burrowed underneath his skin and wouldn’t leave him alone anymore.

From the kind nurses whom Steve had known since he was little to Mrs. Orlovschi from down the street…

So many people had turned on him and his mother and insisted Steve was a _burden_ , a waste of time and valuable resources, had tried to convince his _mam_ every time he fell ill that it would be better to let him go quietly. Steve wasn’t even sure they were wrong anymore.

The beach was, thankfully, empty today, with people choosing to seek refuge from the dreary weather in their apartments rather than brave the elements to sit on the beach. It meant that Steve was free to talk to Bucky out loud, without anyone staring at him like he was the biggest grease ball they’d ever met.

He _would_ , if Bucky would stop running his mouth about how Dottie Johnson had let him feel her up in the alley behind the dancehall.

It wasn’t that Steve was annoyed with Bucky for telling him about Dottie; she and Bucky had been going steady for nearly five months now, and she was the first girl Bucky had _really_ been interested in beyond a burning curiosity to figure out what girls were hiding beneath their skirts.

He also didn’t resent Bucky for having a thriving social life. He couldn’t think of anyone more deserving of it than his Bucky; but therein lay the problem.

Bucky wasn’t _Steve’s_.

At least not in the way they had been _buckyandsteve_ since before they both even knew how to speak. Steve preferred not to think about the itch beneath his skin that he’d gotten the first time Bucky came to him and told him what it was like to kiss a girl—preferred not to think about the way he hadn’t imagined himself in Bucky’s place but in the girl’s.

He’d been _frightened_ to realise he was more interested in feeling the calloused pads of Bucky’s fingers on his skin than he was to ever find out what making time with a girl of his own felt like.

So yes… Steve _loved_ Bucky, more than he loved anyone else, but sometimes he _hated_ him.

Steve didn’t _want_ to be even more of an outcast than he was already, having been born small, sickly and _Irish_ to boot—he couldn’t be _queer_ on top of that.

He _couldn’t_.

He’d been equally relieved and put out when Bucky began spending less time with Steve because of his newly discovered interest in women. It had been a relief, because without Bucky there, Steve could blessedly ignore the queer feelings his _anam cara_ evoked in him.

It had been rough, because while Bucky was off living his life in Indiana, Steve got a little… lonely.

He felt guilty, of course, for feeling as he did. Bucky deserved all the happiness in the world, especially considering how his father struggled to support their family and Bucky was forced to step up, to get a job to pitch in, so his sisters could continue going to school.

He didn’t have very many friends outside of Bucky, and he’d never felt that so keenly until Bucky started appearing less and less.

It wasn’t like Bucky was the only one able to visit through their connection, but the last time Steve had tried, he had been so exhausted afterwards he’d been sick for days. He’d promised Bucky not to try again until he was a little stronger, and while Steve _chafed_ under the implication of being weak, he did not want to make Bucky worry for him needlessly.

“You even listening to me anymore, Steve?” Bucky teased, suddenly a lot closer than he had been the last time Steve looked at him. Steve’s cheeks flushed a little at Bucky’s sudden proximity, because he hadn’t been _prepared_ for it, which made it all the harder to focus on not letting Bucky see too deep into his head, to hide the things Steve _knew_ would make Bucky leave and never come back.

“Course I am, Buck,” Steve replied glibly, dragging the charcoal stub over his paper to define the soft curve of Bucky’s lower lip in his sketch, frustration curling in the pit of his stomach because he couldn’t _get it right_. He’d sketched Bucky before—Bucky had always been one of his favorite subjects to sketch—but Steve never quite managed to get him completely right.

Whether it was the missing twinkle of mischief in his eye or the breathtaking curve of his lips or the way Steve’s chest sometimes went _tight_ when he looked at Bucky for too long…

There was something in Bucky that Steve hadn’t been able to commit to paper yet, despite his efforts.

“You’re putting me out, you fucking punk,” Bucky chuckled, settling down beside Steve.

Steve grinned sheepishly at Bucky, who just raised an unimpressed eyebrow at him. “I was trying to listen, Buck,” he beamed cheekily. “But seeing as there ain’t much sense coming outta that ugly mug of yours, I didn’t think I’d be missing much.”

Bucky _squawked_ , puffing his chest like an indignant peacock, grumbling, “You’re a damned _punk_ , Rogers. See if I ever listen when you start running your mouth again.” He leaned halfway across Steve’s lap to look at his sketches, making a noise somewhere between a snort and a laugh.

“If my mug’s so ugly, why’re you drawing me again, Steve?” Bucky teased, and Steve’s heart clenched a little at the playful— _beautiful_ —smile on his best friend’s face.

The best friend who was his _anam cara_ , half of his soul, who Steve…

Who Steve was…

“An artist’s gotta make do with what he’s got,” Steve replied loftily, sticking his nose up into the air to emphasize his ridiculous tone, barely managing to keep the expression on his face for more than a second before they both burst into peals of laughter. Steve couldn’t _stop_ laughing, because he was pretty sure he was in love with Bucky’s ugly mug, and if he wasn’t laughing, he’d start crying instead.

“You’re getting real’ good, Stevie,” Bucky said quietly after his laughter tapered off. “You should apply to that fancy art school after high school, become this fancy artist, get yourself a real’ fancy girl.”

“Aw, they’re just scribbles, Buck,” he waved off the compliment, shaking his head a little before chancing a glance at his friend, who was looking at him intently, so intently it almost took Steve’s breath away.

“Nah, Steve,” Bucky said quietly, not once tearing his stormy-grey eyes from Steve’s. “I think you’ve got something special there.” Steve shot a glance down at the sketch and drew his lower lip between his teeth, entirely missing the way Bucky’s eyes darted down to his trapped bottom lip.

“You think so, Buck?” he asked uncertainly, releasing his lip from between his teeth.

Bucky’s reply was quiet and slightly delayed, but no less sincere. “Yeah, Stevie. I really do.”

————— _———_

_…I gather from your letter that your son is a homosexual, drawn to another man he proclaims his soulmate. I am most impressed by the fact that you do not mention this term yourself in your information about him… Homosexuality is assuredly no advantage, but it is nothing to be ashamed of, no vice, no degradation; it cannot be classified as an illness; we consider it to be a variation of the sexual function, produced by a certain arrest of sexual development._

_…great injustice to persecute homosexuality as a crime – and a cruelty, too. If you do not believe me, read the books of Havelock Ellis…ask that you describe the phenomenon your son referred to as his soulmate’s visions further, for they might provide critical information in the development of homosexuality._

_By asking me if I can help, you mean, I suppose, if I can abolish homosexuality and break through the soulmate bond he boasts, and make normal heterosexuality take its place. The answer is, in a general way we cannot achieve it…question of the quality of the bond and the age of the individual._

_The result of the treatment cannot be predicted._

_What analysis can do for your son runs in a different line. If he is unhappy, neurotic, torn by conflicts, inhibited in his social life, analysis may bring him harmony, peace of mind, full efficiency, whether he remains bound to his proclaimed soulmate and homosexual or gets changed._

_—Sigmund Freud, Letter to a Concerned Mother, 1935_

————— _———_

### Just outside of the Brooklyn Home for Consumptives  
Brooklyn, New York, United States of America  
June 1934

Contrary to what Bucky would have people believe, Steve didn’t _actually_ go looking for trouble. Every now and then, he just happened to run right into it, and Steve never had been very good at keeping his nose strictly confined to his own business, especially when there was someone he could be _helping_.

Steve had just brought his _mam_ some lunch—she forgot, sometimes, when she worked double shifts, and Steve had to take care of her as much as she did him—and was walking home when he heard a cut-off yelp, followed by a pained grunt and jeering laughter from the alley on the side of the building.

Maybe he should have ignored it; Lord knew he’d gotten into three other fights just that week already, and he _really_ shouldn’t be pushing his luck _again_ ; but Steve was never very good at walking away.

He stepped into the alley, incensed beyond measure by the scene he found there. A young, skinny man was huddled against the wall, two big, burly men standing over him with their fists raised. The young, skinny man was bleeding from his nose and mouth, clutching at his stomach with an expression of pure agony and the two men standing over him were all laughing, as if beating up the guy was the funniest thing they’d ever done.

“Hey!” Steve yelled, before he could think better of it. “Hey, lay off him!”

The men didn’t even deign to look at him, and the tallest one just snarled, “Keep walking, kid, this ain’t no concern of yours.” Steve barely caught a glimpse of the ugly, twisted sneer on the man’s face as he turned slightly towards Steve. “We’re just teaching this filthy fag a lesson he won’t soon forget.”

The words only pissed Steve off further and he stooped low, ignoring the sharp ache in his back as he grabbed the nearest object and lobbed it towards the broad-shouldered goon. The can—which Steve supposed was still full, considering it flew the distance of the alley quite nicely—bounced of the guy’s head with a satisfying _thunk_.

“Come on, pal,” Steve jeered, hitching up his fists like Bucky had shown him. “How about you pick on someone your own size?”

The two men turned to Steve in unison, almost comically indignant, the skinny guy on the ground momentarily forgotten. “Yeah?” Big Ugly sneered, taking a step forward threateningly. “Like you? You ain’t even up to my _knee_ , kid.”

“Don’t need to be high up to hit ya where it hurts,” Steve spat, carefully keeping the men’s attention on him and away from the guy still curled into a ball on the filthy alley floor. The first man snarled at him and lunged forward, taking a sloppy swing at him. Steve dodged the punch easily enough—he’d been practicing as best he could with Bucky, who was a YMCA boxing champion by now—but he hadn’t anticipated the second man coming up right behind him and swinging at his ribs, knocking the breath right out of him.

He grunted in pain and lashed out, managing to hit one of the two—he didn’t actually see—square in the nose, feeling hot blood splat onto his knuckles before his legs were kicked out from under him and he hit the ground _hard_.

“Stay down,” the asshole whose nose he’d broken scoffed at him, kicking him in the face when Steve made to get to his feet—because _damn him_ if he’d just take this kind of shit laying down.

“I can do this all day,” he spat, ignoring the throbbing ache quickly spreading from where the man’s boot had connected with his face. He _could_ do this all day—these men might be big and strong, like all of the bullies Steve dealt with were, but not a single one of them had Steve’s level of pain tolerance, because none of them had to deal with even an _ounce_ of the pain Steve had to deal with every fucking day.

This… this was _nothing_.

“Oy!”

A shout from the other end of the alley took them all by surprise, and Steve managed to lever himself up on his elbows enough to see a tall, big man standing at the mouth of the alley. He nearly smiled—it was Larry, who worked security at the bank next to the hospital. Larry was a kind man, and he must’ve stumbled upon them on his way to the bank. “Move it along, fellas,” Larry insisted, crossing his arms over his chest. “You don’t want no troubles, do you?”

“This kid was sticking his nose in our business,” the shorter man hissed, pointing at Steve accusingly, stepping forward like he just wanted to start punching him again.

“Get the fuck out of here,” Larry snapped, pointing to the end of alley. “Or I’ll call in the coppers.”

The men scrammed easily enough at that, and Steve heaved a sigh as he let Larry help him back to his feet. “You know I had ‘em on the ropes,” he told Larry, smiling a little at the large man. It hadn’t been that bad of a beating anyway, and Steve was sure he could have handled it eventually.

“You always do, don’t you?” Larry said good-naturedly, patting Steve’s shoulder. “You good, kid?”

Steve nodded and winced as he brushed his finger over his split lip. “Yeah, I’ll be fine. Thanks, Larry.”

He watched as Larry left the alley, humming to himself lightly, before he turned to look at the skinny guy he’d stepped in to defend. He was sitting up now, pale and bruised, his arms curled protectively around himself. “You okay?” Steve asked, stepping towards him hesitantly, a little taken aback by the fear he saw in the guy’s brown eyes.

“I’m okay,” he said hoarsely, and suddenly Steve realized that this guy was probably a lot closer to Steve’s age than he had originally thought. “Thanks for that,” the kid continued slowly. “You didn’t have to do that. Most people wouldn’t have.”

“Yeah,” Steve sighed, rubbing his hand over his forehead. “I’m not most people.”

He almost missed the way the guy bit his lip and looked at Steve speculatively. “No…” he said softly. “You’re not.” He took Steve’s hand and let Steve help him up, smiling tightly at him. “I’m Arnie Roth.”

“Steve Rogers,” Steve nodded in reply. “Good to meetcha.” He regarded the hand Arnie offered him warily for a moment before he took it and shook it, grasping it as firmly as he dared, considering Arnie’s hand was also covered in blood and might be hurt too.

Arnie smiled at him and, just like that, Steve had a new friend.

————— _———_

Being Arnie’s friend wasn’t anything like being Bucky’s friend.

Arnie wasn’t Steve’s _anam cara,_ for one, and they fought about stupid, silly things sometimes, ranging from the difference in their schools and teachers and amount of homework to the houses they got to go to on their respective paper routes.

They fought about the boy Steve had caught Arnie necking behind the movie theatre once, and about being queer altogether, about _talking_ about being queer, about politics and the insecurity that came with being who they were, but somehow they always made up.

Steve’s _mam_ loved Arnie.

Steve privately thought she was just pleased that Steve brought home a friend she could actually see and talk to herself without needing Steve as a go-between.

Bucky liked Arnie too, surprisingly.

Steve figured it was probably because Bucky now had one more person to get in on his relentless quest to make sure Steve was okay and not off getting into fights with bigots and bullies. Not that Arnie was so great at keeping Steve in line; Arnie mostly showed Steve a whole new side of New York—of Brooklyn—and Steve learned he wasn’t alone.

There were _so many_ people just like him, boys who liked boys and girls who liked girls and people who liked both and so many other kinds of people that didn’t fit society, _just like Steve_.

Steve’s first real date was with Arnie and two queer girls who wanted to go dancing without being bothered, and Steve’s _mam_ was so pleased with him she didn’t even set a curfew. Bucky, fully under the impression that the date was a real date with Gracie, not Arnie and two queer girls, had shouted in joy when Steve told him and demanded details and quite literally jumped for joy at the idea of Steve receiving his first kiss.

Steve _did_ , in fact, receive a first kiss on the date.

He did _not_ receive it from either Clara or Grace, who were much too preoccupied with making time with each other to think about Steve, but from a decidedly red-faced Arnie, who backed away after a kiss that lasted no longer than a second-and-a-half.

“I’m sorry,” Arnie had stammered, and Steve had only looked at him for a few seconds before Steve decided that he didn’t mind kissing Arnie so much, and lunged forward to press his lips to Arnie’s again.

It was dry, and a little weird, and Steve wasn’t sure if he hated it or loved it.

He hated it because Arnie wasn’t Bucky, but he loved it, because it meant someone _liked_ him, without a magic Bond telling them they had to. Steve tried to feel guilty about it, because he was still in love with Bucky—but it was a lot easier to ignore when Bucky showed up with new stories of his own conquests.

Arnie kissed him a few more times after that, until he met Benjamin Steindorff and fell head over heels in love with him, in a way that Steve had only every seen in flicks. Steve didn’t mind too much, and he told Arnie so too. It wasn’t until Arnie confessed he thought he was in love with Benjamin that Steve told Arnie about his feelings for Bucky, about the bond between them, and that, even with the increasingly busy social life he and Arnie had built over the years, he missed Bucky when he wasn’t around.

Arnie believed him.

He also advised Steve to tell Bucky, and though Steve honestly considered it, he didn’t do anything about it. His life was good, and Steve hadn’t had too many stretches of good months in a row in his short life, so he didn’t want to do anything that would upset the balance.

Life was hard, but it was good.

And then his mother collapsed.

————— _———_

_Mrs. Sarah Rogers, née Brennan._

_Funeral services for Mrs. Sarah Rogers will be held at 9 o’clock Saturday morning at Greenwood Chapel with Rev. Byrne officiating. Burial will be in Greenwood Cemetery, where Mrs. Rogers will be laid to rest beside her late husband. Pall-bearers will be Steven Rogers, Arnold Roth, Benjamin Steindorff, Walter Janssens, Alfred Abernathy and Paul Johnson._

_—Obituaries, Brooklyn Daily Eagle, 14 October 1936_

————— _———_

### Greenwood Cemetery, Bushwick, Brooklyn, New York, United States of America  
17 October 1936

The day he buried his mother the skies were so dark that it was almost like it was night, and it rained so hard he nearly wasn’t allowed onto the burial ground with the priest and the undertaker to see his mother off to her final resting place. But Father Byrne had taken pity on Steve and allowed him to join them.

Steve stood alone in front of his mother’s grave, shoes sinking a little into the soggy, muddy ground, listening numbly as Father Byrne recited prayers from beneath the safety of his black umbrella, wondering vaguely if the many neighbours and colleagues and friends who had turned out for the ceremony and who had helped Steve bear the coffin, would still be waiting for him at the front of the church, if Arnie and Benjamin would be there again to try to convince him to move into their tiny shoebox apartment with them, if Clara and Gracie would be there to hug him and whisper words of comfort that he just _didn’t want to hear_.

Steve had been nothing but grateful for how many people came to honour his mother’s life, but he was grateful he didn’t have to share this moment with anyone but Father Byrne.

It hadn’t stopped raining since the day his mother had passed away, alone in a hospital bed in the very hospital she used to work in, with her former colleagues refusing to let Steve near her, for fear he’d catch the disease from her.

Steve hadn’t cared.

Steve _didn’t_ care.

He’d begged and he’d cried and he’d _screamed_ , pleading to be let in, to be allowed to hold his mother’s hand one last time, but the women had remained firm, and Steve had been forced to return to the apartment he and his _mam_ used to share alone.

Arnie had Benjamin and a job and a life, and Steve didn’t expect him—nor did he want him—to drop everything to help keep Steve afloat in the mess that was his life.

He also hadn’t seen Bucky since August.

And now… Now he didn’t have his _mam_ , and he didn’t have Bucky—not for any considerable length of time anyway, nothing that _counted_ —and Steve wasn’t sure how to keep going on his own.

“Steven?”

Father Byrne’s soft voice drew him back to the graveyard, where his black suit was getting soaked through with rain and the raindrops mixed with his tears on his cheeks, and mud stained the nice leather shoes he’d borrowed from Benjamin.

He looked up at Father Byrne with tears still burning in his eyes and his jaw clenched to keep himself from falling apart. He suspected Father Byrne knew he was crying anyway, because his voice was soft and gentle when he asked, “Have you said your goodbyes?”

He didn’t think he could speak without his voice breaking, without _shattering—_ and he _couldn’t_ , he couldn’t let this break him—so instead he shook his head, his hands trembling as he stepped forward and pulled a folded sketch of his mother out of his pocket. The paper soaked through with rain immediately and Steve could tell the charcoal was bleeding into big, uneven splotches in the paper, but he could only think that it was almost poetic.

The last image he had drawn of his mother erased from the paper by the rain the same way tuberculosis had taken the vibrant, beautiful woman she had been and erased her from existence.

“ _Tá grá agam duit, mam._ _Slán leat.”_  

His _mam_ had ensured Steve knew Irish Gaelic as well as he knew his English, so that he’d never forget where he came from. Steve was glad for it in this moment, so that he could send his mother off to join his father with the words of the homeland she had so dearly loved and missed, despite leaving it behind without hesitation for a chance of a better life in America.

Steve hoped she thought the life they’d built here was good, and worth the loss of her beloved Ireland.

Steve hoped she and his father would be proud of him, that they’d understand he was _trying_ , trying _so hard_ to be strong and unflappable, like them, like his father had been before the war had taken him from Steve and his _mam_ far too soon. He hoped that they were together now, and that the sadness that had followed his mother around his entire life would be lifted.

He hoped he could live up to the example they had set. He hoped he could be the son they deserved.

“ _I love you,”_ he thought again, squeezing his fingers around the ruined sketch before he dropped it onto the cheap wooden casket in the grave. “ _Goodbye_.”

————— _———_

### Rogers’ apartment, Brooklyn, New York, United States of America

Steve’s bad day had only gotten worse.

Arnie and Benjamin _had_ actually stayed back and waited for him, pestering him about moving in with them the entire way back to their little tenement on Montague Street, he’d run into a couple of nasty dockworkers who catcalled after him for two whole blocks, and he’d cried so hard his sinuses were all clogged up and his head was _pounding_.

He dropped his keys to the floor as soon as he walked in the door, fingers trembling as he set foot in the small apartment he and his _mam_ had shared for the first time since… since…

The cry wrenched itself from his lips like it was _torn_ from him, just like his mother’s death felt. It didn’t feel like he _lost_ her—it felt like she was _ripped_ from him violently, like there was a gaping wound where his _mam_ used to fit into his soul. Steve had felt pain before—Steve and Pain were old friends, but he’d _never_ felt anything like this before.

This… This was raw and fundamental, reaching so deep into him that it was almost like his very _bones_ ached with it. At the same time, the world felt muted, and all Steve really wanted was to crawl in bed and wake up to his _mam_ ’s cheerful humming in the tiny kitchenette as she made them both breakfast the best she could with their limited budget and the things Mr. Garibaldi sometimes let Steve take home after work because they weren’t fit to be sold in the store anymore.

He wanted his _mam_ back.

He wanted the woman who had sat with him, who had played games with him when he was too sick to go outside. He missed the woman who had believed him when he’d told her about Bucky, who had held him when he was so sad he got angry and when he was beaten black and blue by whichever bully he’d picked a fight with that week.

He wanted to crawl into her arms and cry until he had no tears left, but he _couldn’t_.

He couldn’t ever hold her again.

Steve had no concept of how long he lay there, curled onto his side by the door, gasping for breath between sobs, fist pressed against his chest in a sad attempt to keep himself from falling apart. He knew Bucky was there before he saw him, before he heard Bucky’s concerned pleas. There was something that _changed_ in the air whenever Bucky appeared—a certain _electric_ quality that made goosebumps rise on Steve’s entire body.

Steve loved him.

He also hated him.

“Stevie,” Bucky pleaded worriedly, hands fluttering above Steve’s crumpled form worriedly, as close to him as he could be without touching him. “Stevie, what’s—what happened? Is it your asthma? Where’s your inhaler? Where’s Sarah?”

Steve expelled a rough breath, a broken groan, and shook his head. “Dead,” he whispered.

“What?” Bucky’s voice was—if possible—even more alarmed than it had been before, and all Steve could think about was that he _didn’t care_. He hadn’t seen Bucky in _months_ , had barely even felt the tug of the bond in the past few weeks, when he’d needed Bucky more than he ever had before and he _hadn’t been there_.

“My mom’s _dead_ ,” he repeated with a growl, abruptly shoving himself upright, eyes burning and his entire being _aching_. “I just buried her.” His voice _broke_ on the last word and he folded, wrapping his arms around himself to keep himself together, to keep going because _he couldn’t_ give up.

“Oh God,” Bucky’s eyes were wide and horrified and it was the first time in _months_ Bucky had let Steve feel so much through the bond and Steve _hated it_.

“Like you _cared_ ,” he spit angrily, pushing himself off the floor and past Bucky, deeper into the apartment. “You were busy with Dottie or Karen, or whoever it is this week. Go back to that, it’s obviously more important to you than we ever were.”

“No,” Bucky exclaimed angrily, following after Steve when he stomped into the bedroom angrily. “No, we’re not done talking about this.”

“What is there to talk about?” Steve struggled with his tie angrily, determinedly _not_ looking at Bucky and focusing his attention on getting this goddamned suit off of himself. “You made it pretty damned clear where you stood when you disappeared on us for three months. There isn’t _anything_ worth discussing about this anymore.”

“Of course there is,” Bucky shouted back, pressing forward with his entire body as much as he could without touching Steve and snapping the tenuous connection. “You think I _liked_ staying away this long? D’you think I did it ‘cause I was _bored?_ Damn it, Steve, you’re supposed to know me— _”_

“But I _don’t_!” Steve bellowed, and the force of his exclamation, of his _anger_ and _rage_ and _frustration_ , sent Bucky stumbling back a few steps, expression slack with shock and eyes wide. “I _don’t_ know you,” Steve continued, forceful and angry, though his hands trembled with every word and he could barely _breathe_. “I feel like I’ve barely seen you at all since you turned fifteen and kissed your first gal. You forgot me then. You haven’t stopped forgetting me every day since.”

“Forget you?” Bucky whispered, eyes glassy and focused on Steve with an intensity Steve really didn’t know what to do with. “Steve, I haven’t been able to get you out of my head since 1918.”

The words were incredibly simple, but they still hit Steve like a sledgehammer to the chest.

“Oh,” he breathed, swallowing thickly. “Right.”

He took a small step back, the tie slipping through his fingers and landing in a coiled heap at his feet. Steve _knew_ the bond worked both ways. He _knew_ Bucky had to feel it as much as Steve did, but sometimes, it had been so much easier to think of it as something that was worse on Steve’s side—because Steve couldn’t imagine ever being able to live life as happily as Bucky did when he felt the same _ache_ that Steve did when Bucky wasn’t around.

He also knew that Bucky would never mean that in the way that Steve’s treacherous heart really wanted him to mean it. It _hurt_ in a way he’d never expected it to hurt—it was a kind of agony that he’d never experienced before, and he wasn’t sure what to make of it now.

“Stevie, I—” Bucky began, breaking off almost immediately before running his fingers through his hair—which was entirely free of pomade, Steve noticed—and shaking his head. “I… I stayed away for a reason. I wasn’t… I wasn’t just avoiding you, I promise.”

Steve sighed heavily and sank down onto the bed. “Buck,” he whispered. “I just buried my mom. I don’t… I don’t think I have the energy to listen to your excuses right now.”

The room fell silent for a long time, and for a second, Steve thought Bucky had left, but his arm was still covered in goosebumps, and moments later, Bucky knelt before him. “Stevie,” he whispered, hands hovering a hair’s breadth above Steve’s thighs. “Stevie, I gotta tell ya something. And you gotta listen, okay? I shoulda told you before I disappeared on you, but I… I got scared.”

Steve chanced a look at Bucky’s eyes and _melted_ , because even without the bond he would have been able to read every emotion in Bucky’s eyes. He’d never seen Bucky this _scared_ before.

“Okay,” he nodded. “Tell me, then.”

 Bucky nodded shakily, rubbing his hands over his thighs as he chewed on his lower lip. “Okay,” he repeated shakily. “Okay. I can… I can do this.” Steve wasn’t sure what Bucky was working up to, but it seemed like it was important enough that Bucky was actually downright _terrified_ , and Steve wasn’t enough of an asshole to make it harder for him.

“Bucky,” he said softly. “I might be mad at you, but you can always tell me everything. _Everything_.”

“Lord, I hope you mean that,” Bucky choked, shaking his head a little, almost like a dog shaking its head to get rid of the water after swimming. He took a deep breath and looked up at Steve again, eyes wide and pleading as he whispered, “I love you. I’m in love with you. I ain’t no fairy, Stevie, but I love you, more than I could ever love any dame.”

Steve stared, gobsmacked, heart pounding and head spinning.

Oh. _Oh_.

Bucky was… And Steve could… they both were… Steve barked out a sharp laugh before he realized what he was doing, slapping his hands over his face. “We’re so stupid,” Steve gasped, chest heaving with shuddering breaths, missing the way Bucky _flinched_ initially.

“I’m sorry, Stevie,” Bucky whispered dejectedly, and for the first time, Steve realized that he hadn’t actually said anything about what Bucky had told him.

“No,” he said hastily, looking up at Bucky, who stood by the bedroom door with his eyes downcast and his brow furrowed. “Bucky, no. Don’t you ever feel sorry for that. There’s nothing wrong with us.” Bucky’s head snapped up abruptly and Steve swallowed thickly at the look in Bucky’s eyes.

“ _Us_?” Bucky repeated hoarsely, and Steve’s heart started pounding and his cheeks were burning, because it never got any easier, it never stopped being _scary_ to say it out loud, not even to Bucky.

“Yeah,” Steve nodded shakily. “Us. As in… If you were here, I would have kissed you already.”

Their eyes met, and Steve could read the confusion in Bucky’s, the fear that matched the fear that coiled in Steve’s gut, and the tentative hope that had bloomed in the center of his chest. Bucky opened his mouth, but didn’t say anything and closed it again with a snap.

Neither of them moved for several long moments.

“I wish I could touch you,” Bucky finally whispered, moving back towards Steve until he was as close as he could get without snapping the connection. “I’ve never wanted to touch you so badly before.”

“Me too,” Steve breathed, and he couldn’t look away from Bucky’s eyes, couldn’t bring himself to break that little extra connection to his _anam cara_ , his best friend, his _soulmate_.

That in itself scared Steve more than anything.

In his entire life, no one had been more constant than Bucky, even when he wasn’t there, even when Steve was angry and _hated_ him—Steve loved him, and he didn’t want to lose Bucky. He was afraid of letting their relationship change, because if it did… what if he lost Bucky too?

Steve didn’t think his heart could survive another loss.

His breath caught when Bucky smiled, soft and small and tremulous, but a _smile_ —and suddenly it didn’t matter how scared he was, because Steve wanted to look at that smile and marvel at how beautiful Bucky was for the rest of his life.

“I love you,” he admitted, feeling almost like a weight had been lifted from his chest as he spoke the words. “I’ve been in love with you for… I can’t even remember a time when I _didn’t_ love you, you _jerk_.”

Bucky laughed, rubbing his fingers over his temples. “Back at ya, you punk.” They were silent for a moment longer before Bucky whispered, “We’ll figure it out, Steve. We’ll figure something out.”

For once, Steve believed him.

————— _———_

**_22,000 NAZIS HOLD RALLY IN GARDEN ; POLICE CHECK FOES_ **

**_Record Detail of 1,700 Cuts Off the Area to Protesters—Thousands in Vicinity_ **

**_SCUFFLES OCCUR OUTSIDE_ **

**_Pickets Battle in Vain to Pass the Lines—Speakers Hail Washington and Coughlin_ **

_Protected by more than 1,700 policemen, who made of Madison Square Garden a fortress almost impregnable to anti-Nazis, the German-American Bund last night staged its much-advertised “Americanism” rally and celebration of George Washington’s birthday._

_The meeting itself was orderly enough, the only out-of-the-way incident inside of the Garden occurring near the end when a young Jewish listener mounted the platform only to be tackled by several uniformed Bund members and then carried off by a half-dozen husky policemen. Mention of President Roosevelt and other critics of Nazi Germany drew resounding boos._

_Outside, in the several blocks immediately adjacent to the big sports arena, there was scattered fighting and disorder before, during, and after the meeting, but no serious trouble._

**_13 Held on Minor Charges_ **

_Only thirteen arrests were made, all on minor charges. Eight persons received medical aid because of minor injuries, four of them policemen. Another policeman was knocked down by a police horse, but declined aid. A Bund member inside the Garden was treated at Polyclinic Hospital for scratches on his forehead._

_Potentially the most serious situation arose when the Bund followers began to stream out the doors when the meeting closed at 11:15. As they passed through the police lines at Fifty-Second Street some of the more violent anti-Nazis in the crowd began assaults on individuals. Policemen quickly broke up those fights and by 12 o’clock Eight Avenue was as quiet as it usually is at that hour on a mid-week midnight._

_There was considerable delay in vehicular traffic along the avenue from 6 P.M. to 12, traffic being diverted entirely for a few minutes at 11:15, and the whole area for two blocks north, south and east of the Garden was closed off for the same period to foot pedestrians not bound for the rally._

**_Record Detail of Police_ **

_It was such an outpouring of … place at Fifty-First Street and Eighth Avenue, where followers of the Socialist Workers party, an organisation pledged to the principles of Leon Trotzky, staged their principal demonstration. The party is the only organisation calling for a public demonstration at the meeting, had asked for 30,000 demonstrators. Police placed the number of active participants at only a few hundred._

_Although small in numbers, they were extremely vocal and at various times during the evening set up such a shouting that it appeared many more were participating as the curious rushed from many vantage points to the scene of the disturbance._

**_Demonstrators Dispersed_ **

_There also were several minor brushes at the southern side of the police blockade, at Forty-Eighth Street just before the meeting adjourned, when several hundred anti-Bund demonstrators sifted through police lines and formed ranks between Eighth and Ninth Avenues. It was in breaking up this parade that most of the arrests were made._

_The police vigilance on the lines…_

**_(Continued on Page Five)_ **

—The New York Times, Tuesday, February 21, 1939

————— _———_

The thing was… Steve tried not to hate on principle.

He tried not to hate people or organisations that he didn’t understand. Steve didn’t like bullies, and that applied to himself too. He didn’t like the way hating people and beliefs made him feel; didn’t like the impotent _rage_ it brought, because he _believed_ that people were allowed to have whatever opinion they wanted, but he also _hated_ some of those opinions.

He’d felt that way about Germany and Hitler’s Nationalist Socialist German Worker’s Party at first too.

There hadn’t been overly much to _know_. It hadn’t even been overtly alarming until Hitler began _really_ pushing through decrees that scared the rest of Europe, until his government established a totalitarian regime and withdrew from the League of Nations and sent the world into an uproar.

Steve hadn’t begun resenting Hitler and his Nazi followers until they passed the Nuremburg Laws and started actively targeting and persecuting Jews and so many other minorities. He hadn’t considered them a real threat until Germany annexed Austria and Sudetenland, until the shock of Kristallnacht a few months ago, when Nazis had burned down hundreds of synagogues and Jewish-owned businesses and arrested thousands of Jewish men in Germany.

He hadn’t hated them until he began looking up whatever he could find and realised they were the worst kind of bullies he’d ever heard of.

And then… _Then_ they’d decided to hold a rally in _New York_ , and fuck if Steve wasn’t going to be there to protest against the very existence of their _stupid_ , _bigoted_ opinions.

He punched his first Nazi two hours in. The second and third followed pretty swiftly before a copper had grabbed him by his nape and dragged him out of the fray. The three hours he’d been forced to spend in the little jail cell had been worth it.

Steve hated bullies. In _and_ out of America. He didn’t care where they came from.

————— _———_

### Montague Street, Brooklyn Heights, Brooklyn, New York, United States of America  
4 July 1939

The fire escape just outside the living room window was far from the most comfortable—or sensible—place Steve could have chosen to spend his twenty-first birthday. It certainly hadn’t been his only option, nor the first one he’d been presented with, but right now he couldn’t think of any place he would rather be than right here on the rickety, creaky fire escape.

He’d actually been planning to let Arnie and the girls take him out to a queer bar they’d been to a few times before; a warm, cozy place where they could be themselves without having to be afraid of who was watching. That, of course, had been before Bucky had appeared and had smiled at Steve in a way Steve had always been entirely powerless to resist.

His friends had understood, thankfully.

 _Arnie_ had understood, in any case. He remained the only one of Steve’s friends to actually know about the soulbond and everything that came with it—the girls and Arnie’s newest fella just thought Bucky was Steve’s out-of-town fella who showed up whenever it pleased him.

Steve didn’t _like_ to lie to them, per se, but it _was_ the easiest way to explain Bucky’s existence to them. He just had to be happy they hadn’t asked to _meet_ him, yet. At least they understood his desire for privacy—it was something all of them shared.

He glanced up from beneath his lashes to look at Bucky, who sat sprawled out against the far end of the fire escape, legs stretched out comfortably in front of him as he looked up at the sky, waiting for the fireworks to commence. Steve tightened his grip on the neck of the Coca-Cola bottle and once again marveled at the way God and the universe had simultaneously blessed _and_ cursed him.

It had taken Steve and Bucky time to settle into the new groove of their changed relationship. Oddly, nothing much had overtly changed; but Steve told Bucky he loved him a little more often, and Bucky looked at Steve in the same way Steve knew he looked back—Steve’s friends teased him about it _relentlessly_ , and Arnie hadn’t been able to resist telling Steve ‘I told you so’, but Steve didn’t mind.

He had Bucky.

 _He had Bucky_.

Even with the world falling apart, Nazism taking Europe little by little and countries slinging thinly veiled threats at one another… Even with the threat of arrests and sterilization and everything hanging above their heads should anyone ever catch them or hear Steve…

He had Bucky, and that made it all feel so much easier.

Steve couldn’t really take his eyes _off_ of Bucky these days either. Bucky tried to appear whenever he could, and as they both aged, it seemed to become a little less straining and a little easier every time. Steve had always thought Bucky was the most handsome person he’d ever met, but as they grew out of their teen years, Steve’s childhood infatuation—which had included a lot of fantasies of holding hands, kissing chastely and cuddling together on cold nights—had abruptly spun into a passionate, _enthusiastic_ appreciation of the increased musculature on Bucky’s initially wiry frame.

He’d taken to helping several older families on their farms, doing the heavy lifting that they couldn’t anymore, and it had helped him grow from an already unfairly beautiful boy into an even more disarmingly gorgeous man and Steve was _weak_ for it.

Bucky seemed to sense that Steve was looking at him—though, admittedly, Steve spent most of their time together staring at him—and looked down at him, grinning playfully as he chuckled, “Fireworks are up there, birthday boy. Just for you, all of ‘em.”

Steve wrinkled his nose and shook his head, barely managing to suppress the urge to kick at Bucky’s ankle playfully. “I stopped believing that when I was eleven, Buck.”

Bucky grinned back, unrepentant, and shrugged. “You should have ‘em though.”

Steve snorted and took a long drink from his soda. “I doubt anyone else thinks of it like that,” he grumbled self-deprecatingly, leaning back against the cold railing and looking up to avoid Bucky’s gaze.

“Hey, Stevie?” Bucky said softly, smiling sweetly when Steve finally conceded and looked at him again. “We don’t need anybody else. I’ll love you enough for the whole world.”

“You’re a sap, Bucky Barnes,” Steve choked, cheeks still _burning_ , because he knew that Bucky loved him too—he _did—_ but it was something else entirely to hear it put like that. Like it was that easy, and like they were gonna be able to live together and build a life together…

“Yeah,” Bucky smiled. “I’m yours through to the end of the line.”

The sky exploded into a kaleidoscope of colors above them.

Steve’s head snapped up and he gasped as the skies sparked with bright, colorful lights, bright blues and gold and silver. It was breathtaking and beautiful as it always was, and when Bucky looked at him with a soft smile, whispering, “Happy birthday, Stevie,” Steve knew there was nowhere else he’d rather have been than right here with his Bucky.

“To the end of the line,” he said softly, pushing his fingers as close to Bucky’s as he could.

————— _———_

**_TO ALL FRENCHMEN_ **

**_France has lost one battle!  
But France has not lost the war!_ **

_A makeshift Government may have capitulated, giving way to panic, forgetting honour and delivering their country into slavery. Yet nothing is lost!_

_Nothing is lost, because this war is a world war. In the free universe, immense forces have not yet been brought into play. Someday these forces will crush the enemy. On that day, France must be present at the victory. She will then regain her liberty and her greatness. This is my goal, my only goal!_

_That is why I ask all Frenchmen, wherever they may be, to unite with me in action, in sacrifice and in hope._

_Our country is in mortal danger._

_Let us fight to save it._

**_LONG LIVE FRANCE!_ **

  1. _de Gaulle_



_—General de Gaulle, Headquarters, Carlton Gardens, London, January 1941_

————— _———_

### WPA Arts building, Brooklyn, New York City, United States of America  
7 December 1941

Steve’s ears were ringing.

He stared at the painting he’d started, the female model’s curves barely sketched out in rough, thick charcoal lines. The line that had been meant to form her shapely calf dragged all the way down to the edge of the paper, following the way Steve’s hand had dropped before the charcoal had fallen from his numb fingers.

 _Attacked_.

 _They’d been attacked_.

There’d be no avoiding war now.

The wireless crackled with static, switching abruptly back from the emergency broadcast to the regularly programmed musical program, but the cheerful music felt entirely out of place in the grim atmosphere of the room. The teacher—a tall man with a handlebar moustache named George Lewis—reached out a trembling hand to turn it off, and the abrupt silence in the room felt even more deafening than the music had.

“Class dismissed,” he said, clearly preoccupied with his own thoughts as he waved his hand at them vaguely. “Go home.”

Steve later couldn’t remember packing his supplies and cleaning his workplace, but he must have, because when he ran into an ashen-faced Arnie and an equally distraught Gracie, he had his bag clutched in his hand. “They say the president is going to make a statement soon,” Gracie said tearfully, clutching at Steve’s sleeve. “They say we’re going to war with the Japs now.”

Steve nodded jerkily, swallowing thickly before he said, “I honestly don’t know what else they could do.”

“It shouldn’t be war,” Arnie spat, but the usual heat behind the words was lacking, and Steve didn’t blame him. Though he had expected war to jump from Europe to the U.S.A. soon, knowing that this was it—this was the moment they would step in… it didn’t feel the way he had thought it would.

He wasn’t excited and he wasn’t _sad_. He didn’t really feel all that much, to be honest.

“I wanna beat them yellow Japs with my bare hands,” a man spat venomously as he pushed past Steve, Arnie, and Gracie, and it made Steve feel a little sick when he heard the loud, jeering agreements.

He didn’t want to beat Japs with his bare hands. He didn’t honestly want to go to war at all—but he had to, didn’t he? Every man was going; Bucky would be going… Steve knew he would sign up if it came to war, and even if he didn’t… there wasn’t any way a strong, healthy young man like Bucky could avoid being drafted.

Steve couldn’t lag behind.

He kept that thought in the forefront of his mind as he lined up outside a recruitment and induction center near Park Slope the next morning, jaw clenched tight and eyes locked on the door. He’d be able to get in and offer his service after the thirty men who had gotten there before him.

He glanced at the man standing next to him, nodding curtly at the kid who looked like he was still quite a ways from legal. Steve didn’t tell him to go home; to not try. He could tell the boy was just as determined as Steve to get in, to help—to fight to protect what he loved.

Steve wouldn’t stand in his way.

————— _———_

_…The United States was at peace with that nation and, at the solicitation of Japan, was still in conversation with the government and its emperor looking toward the maintenance of peace in the Pacific…It will be recorded that the distance of Hawaii from Japan makes it obvious that the attack was deliberately planned many days or even weeks ago._

_During the intervening time, the Japanese government has deliberately sought to deceive the United States by false statements and expressions of hope for continued peace._

_…The facts of yesterday speak for themselves. The people of the United States have already formed their opinions and well understand the implications to the very life and safety of our nation…No matter how long it may take us to overcome this premeditated invasion, the American people in their righteous might will win through to absolute victory._

_…I believe I interpret the will of the Congress and of the people when I assert that we will not only defend ourselves to the uttermost, but will make very certain that this form of treachery shall never endanger us again._

_…With confidence in our armed forces - with the unbounding determination of our people - we will gain the inevitable triumph - so help us God…I ask that the Congress declare that since the unprovoked and dastardly attack by Japan on Sunday, Dec. 7, a state of war has existed between the United States and the Japanese empire._

—The Infamy Speech, Franklin Delano Roosevelt, December 8th, 1941.

————— _———_

### Montague Street, Brooklyn Heights, Brooklyn, New York, United States of America  
31 October 1942

Steve stomped through the door, tossing his hat and coat carelessly aside as the door slammed behind him. The air felt electrified around him and Steve didn’t even need to look to know Bucky was standing behind him. “People are going mad!” he exclaimed immediately, not turning to look at Bucky as he paced. “Mr. Akiyama has lived here longer than most so-called _American_ s have, but _no_ …”

Steve waved his hands erratically, grinding his teeth as he continued, “Just ‘cause his grandparents were born in Japan, suddenly _he_ ’s the bad guy and should be in one of them internment camps. I swear, I’d have punched Emmet Assenberg right in his _stupid, smug_ face, but I _can’t_ get arrested again—they’ll never let me into the Army with a record of assault and battery, and you know that pasty fathead would have pushed charges, _damn it_!”

He kicked at the rickety kitchen table with a cry of frustration, but all he managed to achieve was a stubbed toe and a temper worse than he had started with.

“It ain’t _right_ , Buck,” he insisted. “These people are getting their freedom taken from them for no damned reason at all! How does that make us any better than the Nazis? They got women and children in those camps, people who’ve done _nothing_ wrong beyond being born _Japanese_! When did that become a crime, damn it?”

“When they bombed Pearl Harbor,” Bucky replied tiredly, and Steve spun around, intent on giving his dumb jerk a piece of his mind before he froze at the exhausted expression on Bucky’s face. Dark circles lined his otherwise bright, blue eyes, and the corners of his lips were tugged down into a frown.

“Buck?” he asked slowly, eyeing his _anam cara_ cautiously, carefully probing at the bond to try to figure out what had Bucky looking like his world was about to fall to pieces. “Are you okay? Is your mom?” Steve pushed when Bucky didn’t say anything. “Your sisters?”

Bucky shook his head and swallowed thickly, looking distinctly like he was going to be sick right where he stood. “I got the letter today,” he replied hollowly, looking up at Steve with red-rimmed eyes. “They want me to report to Fort McCoy for training on Monday.”

It took a moment for the meaning behind Bucky’s words to sink in, but when they did, Steve felt like the bottom of his stomach had fallen away and he felt as nauseous as Bucky looked. He’d known it was a possibility—it had been one of the reasons Steve was so adamant about getting _in_ —but he knew that Bucky didn’t want it the same way Steve did.

And Steve _understood_.

Bucky had his mother and sisters to take care of, whereas Steve had no one but himself to worry about on a daily basis. “I’m sorry, Bucky,” he offered, taking a steadying breath. He hadn’t expected this so soon either—not before Steve had found a way to get into the army himself.  

“You must think I’m a coward,” Bucky said unsteadily, tears shining in his eyes again, gathering unshed in the corners, his lower lip trembling ever so slightly.

“Of course not,” Steve replied instantly, leaning in as closely as he could. “Bucky, I won’t ever think you’re a coward for not wanting to fight, for not wanting to have to kill people.” Steve sat cross-legged in front of Bucky and patted the floor until Bucky sat down too, mimicking his position. “I love you,” Steve said seriously, spreading his fingers on the wooden floor carefully, waiting until Bucky did so too, until they had pushed themselves as close to each other as they could.

“I wish I could do this for you,” Steve admitted, flushing a little at Bucky’s intense glare. “If it meant you wouldn’t have to do anything you don’t want to.”

“I’m glad you’re not,” Bucky blurted, eyes wide and smile a little sheepish when Steve glared up at him. “If I gotta go,” Bucky shrugged. “Then I’m glad you’ll be here, _safe_ , where no Nazis can get to you.” He waved Steve’s protest away before Steve had even begun speaking and smiled sadly. “I know you can take care of yourself, Steve, but this works both ways. You save me, I save you.”

Steve bit his lip and swallowed the angry retort that immediately sprang to his lips. “To the end of the line,” he nodded.

Bucky nodded and repeated, “To the end of the line, Stevie.”

————— _———_

**_RED OFFENSIVE STILL GOES ON IN ALL SECTORS_ **

**_Moscow, Jan. 11 — (UP) — Russian forces have bypassed_ ** **_Georgiyevsk_ ** **_, key railroad junction 275 miles southeast of Rostov, and are driving into German defenses north and south of the town, front dispatches disclosed today._ **

_Moscow, Jan. 11 — (UP) — Red army troops, driving through  icy slush behind tanks, captured 17 towns and villages in the north Caucasus during the night after taking 43 in the preceding 24 hours, the high command noon communique announced today._

**_Georgiyevsk_ ** **_Surrounded_ **

_The important railroad center of Georgiyevsk, 275 miles southeast of Rostov, was all but surrounded. Russian armies were in its skirting villages and were within striking distance of Minerainye Vody, 13 miles to the northwest, and Budennovsk, 60 miles to the northeast. Both are key cities in the most important rail system in the entire area._

_Hundreds of Germans were killed, more hundreds were made prisoner and enormous quantities of war spoils fell into Russian hands in an unbroken night of advances in the north Caucasus. In one sector the Russians captured six field guns, 32 machine guns, a headquarters radio transmitter and several files containing classified experimental information from a Nazi science division, the noon communique reported._

**_Nazis Sacrificed_ **

_Desperate German sacrifice troops who tried to hold a river crossing with the aid of 20 tanks and many field guns and six-barreled mortars were overwhelmed by a Russian frontal attack, bearing advanced weaponry. The Russians stormed across the stream, forced an enemy retreat and captured prisoners and important spoils, the noon communique said._

**_New Great Victory_ **

_Communiques and dispatches indicated that the Russians were near one of the big victories of their winter offensive in the north…_

**_(more on Page Nine)_ **

_—Dunkirk Evening Observer, Monday, January 11, 1943_

—————

**New York Recruiting Office  
Whitehall Street, Lower Manhattan, New York, United States of America **

**June 1943**

**Steve**

He’d been sitting on the uncomfortable plastic chairs for nigh on an hour, the cold plastic sticking to his bare skin uncomfortably and digging against his knobbed spine. He refused to complain, however, and staunchly focused on the newspaper and the article on the Russians striking back against the Germans. He’d been receiving odd looks all day, from the moment he walked into the recruitment center with his full five foot seven inches and his heart full of anger and spite.

He _wanted_ to get in. He wanted to contribute, and give the rest of his presumably short lifespan some kind of _meaning_ beyond being Bucky’s soulmate.

He hadn’t seen Bucky since he had been sent off to training in Wisconsin, where he’d met up with a whole lot of New Yorkers who’d enlisted and been drafted into the 107th Infantry Division—his _dad’s_ division.

Bucky had managed just enough energy to visit Steve _once_ after he’d begun training, looking entirely run-down and haggard, covered in mud and hair shorn shorter than Steve had ever seen it. The army fatigues Bucky had been dressed in suited him, but despite his bravado and brave front, Steve had been able to see the heart-wrenching _fear_ lingering in Bucky’s blue-grey eyes when he told Steve he was being sent to a classified location for further training before they sent him to the front.

He _hated_ seeing it on his Bucky—on his _brave_ , clever man.

Steve had pushed the boundary of their connection as far as he could that night, leaving no more than a hair’s breadth between them for as long as the tenuous connection lasted, whispering words of comfort and love, promising anything and everything Bucky wanted, even staying with him back to the barracks where he couldn’t reply because of the others around him.

He would do anything to stave off that terror in Bucky’s eyes. Including joining the army and Bucky himself, and lying on however many enlistment forms he needed to.

His eyes strayed over the small article, a blurb showing devastating death tolls on the European front.

“Boy,” he breathed, blowing out a deep breath. He didn’t want to think about Bucky getting sent out there soon either. “A lot of guys getting killed over there.”

“Rogers, Steven,” the doctor called out right at that moment, and Steve’s stomach fluttered a little as he folded and set down the newspaper. This was the fifth time he’d tried to get in, and though there was certainly a risk in lying on his enlistment forms, the idea of getting caught paled in comparison of the frightening idea of getting a letter telling him Bucky had died somewhere in a ditch in Europe without Steve to watch his back—if Becca even remembered to send him one.

“Kind of makes you think twice about enlisting, huh?” the man sat next to him said wryly, raising an eyebrow when Steve got up swiftly—ignoring his aching knees.

“Nope,” Steve shot back without hesitation, because it _didn’t_. If anything, it only strengthened his resolve to get in _somehow_. He joined the line, refusing to feel self-conscious about being smaller and skinnier and unhealthier than literally everyone in there.

He wasn’t here to impress or convince anyone but the doctor. He knew the drill. He’d been through this four times already. He could totally do it this time—he had it down to a pat.

“Rogers,” the greying man looked down at him with a raised eyebrow. “What did your father die of?”

“Mustard gas,” Steve replied drily, ignoring the twinge in the back of his mind that meant Bucky was thinking about him, that he was worrying, fretting like his mother used to—he shook himself and continued, “He was in the 107th Infantry. I was hoping I could be assigned—”

“Your mother?” the doctor interrupted, not even looking up from his clipboard, and Steve bristled for a moment, _itching_ to pick a fight with this pretentious asshole who wasn’t even _looking_ at him, before closing his eyes and taking a deep breath.

He could do this.

He could push past the humiliation, could ignore the pitying looks and the mocking stares.

“She was a nurse in a TB ward. Got hit, couldn’t shake it…” he admitted. He didn’t like being reminded of his _mam_ ’s death, didn’t like having to remember the _agony_ it had caused, that it still caused. Of course, three of the previous army recruiters had refused him just on the basis of having lived with a TB patient too, which rubbed him entirely the wrong way.

Of course he’d be rejected for contact with the one disease he _hadn’t_ caught.

The doctor sighed even before Steve had finished speaking, shaking his head minutely. “Sorry, son.”

Steve’s heart _sank_ , and he felt faintly nauseous even as he leaned forward and pleaded, “Look, just give me a chance, man.” He _couldn’t_ fail again, couldn’t leave Bucky to his fate all by himself without doing _anything_ to save him.

He needed to help.

Everyone else got to help, everyone else got to fight alongside those that they loved to defend the life that they loved. Why wouldn’t anyone just let him do the same?

“You’d be ineligible on your asthma _alone_ ,” the doctor insisted, eyeing him with the same kind of pity that usually lit his blood on fire with fury and made him _itch_ to punch the asshole that underestimated and pitied him in the face.

He restrained himself and eyed the doctor pleadingly, making his eyes as wide and innocent as he could before he asked, “Is there _anything_ you can do?”

“I’m doing it.” The man shook his head, grabbing that damned, dreaded 4F stamp from the edge of his desk. “I’m saving your life.”

—————

### Bushwick Movie Theatre, Brooklyn, New York, United States of America 

By the time he’d returned to Brooklyn, he was _seething_.

Anger bubbled in his veins and his fingers _itched_ to find something—someone—to fight, to challenge, _to prove_ he _could_ do it. He’d been battling and fighting his entire fucking life. The entire world was against him and had been from the moment he’d been born and struggled to draw his first breath.

Who the fuck was the wrinkled, old grey doc to tell him he wouldn’t be able to handle battle?!

He tried to calm himself a little, tried to _breathe_ , because he’d promised Bucky he wouldn’t throw himself into every fight he found anymore, and because he was meeting Arnie to catch a flick, and he knew his friend detested it when Steve got himself all up in a tizzy over things he ‘couldn’t change anyway’.

It wasn’t like Steve was delusional enough to think he _could_ change the entire world, but he did want to do _something_ right. He was born to two poor-as-dirt Irish immigrant parents, was sickly and skinny and queer to boot, but he was an American, born and bred, and he wanted to have the same right to fight to defend his country and everything he loved and believed in that every other man his age got.

He wanted the right that Bucky got to exercise.

He didn’t think he’d live past thirty—not with his bad heart and lungs—and if he was going to die, he wanted to do it doing something _meaningful_. Surely that wouldn’t be too much to ask, would it?

Steve might not live very long, but he’d be damned if he let anyone tell him he couldn’t do something.

He caught sight of Arnie standing outside the theatre with his hands pushed into his pockets, his light brown hair carefully combed and slathered with pomade, not unlike Steve had seen Bucky wear it before he’d been made to cut his hair according to army regulations.

Arnie was taller than Steve—though most men were, and usually dames in high heels too—but he was just as skinny, and Steve always wondered what people who saw them together saw; two skinny rejects? Queer art students? When Arnie turned and smiled at him, Steve felt bad for letting his thoughts stray into that territory again—Arnie was a good friend, who’d already gone above and beyond for Steve, and he didn’t deserve Steve thinking poorly of him because he was sore with the rest of the world.

“Hey Steve,” Arnie smiled before he caught sight of Steve’s sour expression and the corner of his lips drooped a little. “What’s wrong, pal?”

Steve clenched his jaw and fished the crumpled 4F paper from his pocket, holding it out to Arnie with a grimace. He already knew what Arnie was going to say—didn’t particularly look forward to hearing it again—but kept his eyes on his friend’s face anyway.

He knew Arnie wasn’t a fan of the idea of war, didn’t like the idea of big world leaders getting their panties in a twist and sending good people to fight their battles for them, and while Steve didn’t disagree, he knew there was just _so much more_ to it this time. The last war had been devastating and world-altering, but no one had really known what they were fighting for.

Steve’s _mam_ used to tell him how confused everyone had been, how no one seemed to know what the desired end goal was or how they were going to reach it.

This time, things were different.

They were fighting for freedom, for justice. They were fighting for the people who couldn’t fight for themselves and who had been forced to live under a regime they didn’t believe in nor choose.

“Again?” Arnie sighed, rubbing his fingers over his forehead as he looked at the crumpled paper in Steve’s hand. “What’s this, number seven? Damn it, Steve, they’re going to catch you. You’re going to get in trouble, damn it! They’ll put you in jail! Is that what you want?”

“No, of course not,” Steve bristled, frowning at Arnie. “But I gotta do _something_ , Arnie, I can’t just sit at home while everyone else is out there risking their lives! I have no right to do any less than them!”

“Yes, you do!” Arnie argued back, gesturing wildly. “You have _seven_ enlistment forms that say _you do_! Why are you so insistent on getting yourself _killed_ , Steve? Do you not _see_ what war does to people? To _good_ people? They die, on some godforsaken battlefield, fighting for a leader who’ll never even know their names, or they come back and drink themselves to death. It’s not _worth_ dying over, Steve.”

“Yes!” Steve insisted hotly, cheeks flushed and anger coursing through his veins. “ _Of course_ , it is!”

“So what?” Arnie exclaimed, throwing his hands up in exasperation. “Even if they took you…D’you really think you’d get through basic? Steve, you catch pneumonia when there’s a light _breeze_ out! And even if you did miraculously manage to get to Europe, what do you think you’d do? _Follow orders_? Have you _met_ yourself? They’re gonna kick you out for insubordination before you can say “Dodgers”.”

Steve stared, jaw hanging open and hurt and anger pooling in the pit of his stomach, even as Arnie continued relentlessly.

“You _can’t_ change things, Steve. Not as a foot soldier, and that’s _exactly_ what you would be. History never remembers the little guys; you won’t be remembered. They remember generals and captains, regardless of how many men they needed to accomplish their feats You’d just be a _number_ , like your father was.” Arnie’s eyes are dark and shiny with frustrated tears. “You’re my friend, Steve. There are so many other ways to contribute, to make a difference. I don’t want you to die for nothing.”

There were so many things Steve _wanted_ to say, so many things he _could_ , but…

In the end, he just shook his head and said, “Even if I only ended up saving one life, it wouldn’t have been for nothing. Sitting around here, waiting for my heart to give out… That would be for nothing.”

They stood there, silent and stiff, for a moment longer before Arnie shook his head and turned around. “I can’t watch you do this again, Steve. Please, _please_ … Just find another way to contribute—a way that won’t get you killed. If not for yourself or for me… Do it for Bucky.”

Steve sneered at Arnie, seething that his friend had the _gall_ to bring up Bucky. “I _am_ doing this for Bucky,” he hissed, before turning on his heel and walking back home, ignoring Arnie calling out to him behind him. He was _done_. He was _so_ done with today.

The day sucked, and he highly doubted it would get better.

—————

### Montague Street, Brooklyn Heights, Brooklyn, New York, United States of America

Getting from Bushwick back to his own apartment and neighborhood was a bit of a pain, but Steve hadn’t minded overly much to meet up with Arnie. He had to take the subway to get back, sitting squished between two other people for at least thirty minutes, and he _hated_ it. He hated it, but he hadn’t minded. He hadn’t _before,_ anyway. He and Arnie had been friends for years, they’d been through a lot of shit together, but Steve wasn’t sure how to move past the argument they’d had.

He wasn’t sure if he _could_ move past it—if he even wanted to.

He loved Arnie—of course he did—and he’d never had another friend that he was as close to as he was to Arnie, because they _could be_. Steve could share parts of himself with Arnie that he couldn’t with just anyone else. Arnie was queerer than Steve was, and he didn’t care for trying to hide who he was all too much—he’d helped Steve come to terms with who he was, had introduced Steve to the queer community, and had been the first person Steve had ever kissed.

They weren’t in love, had never been and never would be, but Arnie was almost like a brother to him.

Arnie was an integral part of his life, and Steve wasn’t sure if he could cut him out just like that.

It wasn’t anything like his relationship, his bond, with Bucky, of course. He mused on the difference between the two men as he trudged up the stairs in his building, slowly and steadily to keep his breathing level, chewing on his lower lip thoughtfully.

His earlier anger, though still simmering in the back of his mind, was temporarily forgotten, and he wondered why it was so easy to be _so angry_ with Arnie when all the other man wanted to do was keep Steve from falling into an early grave. Steve _knew_ that he tended towards recklessness, that his self-preservation instincts probably weren’t the best in the world, but…

Steve had been on death’s doorstep so many times during his childhood that it didn’t exactly seem like a very big deal anymore.

He sometimes forgot that it didn’t necessarily feel that way for everyone else, sometimes. Even Bucky felt terrified and angry and frustrated a lot with Steve’s lack of self-preservation, and Steve supposed he couldn’t fault Arnie for feeling the same way.

Arnie was his friend, his first maybe-possibly-something… he loved Arnie just as much as Arnie loved him, but Bucky… Bucky was a part of Steve in such a way he didn’t think he’d ever really be able to love someone else.

Bucky was a part of Steve’s _soul_.

Bucky was…

Bucky was sitting on Steve’s doorstep.

Oh.

Steve froze on the top stair, eyes wide and surprised for a moment, heart pounding frantically. “Bucky, what the—?” he blurted out, frowning in confusion. They hadn’t been able to appear too far from wherever the other was when they visited with one another… But Bucky was sitting on the doorstep like he’d been there a while, and Steve couldn’t figure out why he wouldn’t have just focused on appearing next to Steve as usual.

Something was _off_.

“Hey,” Bucky breathed, eyes wide and blue and _beautiful_ , and _Lord_ , he was so beautiful it made Steve’s heart hurt to look at him, even with his hair cropped short and wearing his dress greens.

“I haven’t seen you in a while,” Steve said, forcing his voice to remain calm and steady as he stepped forward towards the door. “Thought you’d be in training for a while longer.” He didn’t want to appear shaken, didn’t want to show his simultaneous envy and fear at seeing Bucky in his uniform—

He didn’t want to show Bucky how upset he still was.

Bucky nodded shakily, his lower lip trembling before he said, “Got my orders. Got placed in a different regiment, but shipping out to England… _soon_. Tomorrow. Sergeant James Barnes reporting for duty.”

The attempt at humor fell a little flat, and Steve nodded again, frowning a little, fingers clenching around his keys. “I should be going,” he grunted, looking down at his feet for a moment, closing his eyes to collect himself. He knew Bucky would be able to sense internal turmoil anyway, but after losing his shit with Arnie earlier, he didn’t want to do it all over again with Bucky.

“I’m glad you came to see me before you left,” Steve finally said, rubbing his hands together nervously. “If training was any indication, you won’t have the energy for a visit like this once you’re in England, either.” His hands trembled when he stepped forward, waiting for Bucky to step aside so he could get to the door, so they could talk _inside_ , like they’d been careful to do for years.

Bucky didn’t move.

“Steve,” he muttered, voice shaky and hesitant. “Steve, this isn’t… I’m here. I’m… I’m really here.”

Steve stared at him, uncomprehending and unsure, hands trembling and breath unsettled. He was… he was _so_ close to Bucky. He didn’t think they’d ever actually been this close before—not really—because when they pushed the connection snapped, and their moments together had been too far in-between to really push it too often, but now…

Steve swallowed thickly, eyes dropping to where his hands were hovering over Bucky’s chest, almost close enough to touch, but not quite. “You’re here?” he whispered, looking up at Bucky with eyes that burned with unshed tears. “Really?”

He’d… he’d been thinking of this day his entire life, had been _dreaming_ about it since the moment he realised they _would_ meet one day, but now that the day was here, now that _Bucky_ was here….

_Lord. Bucky was here._

“You’re here,” Steve whispered, looking up at Bucky’s familiar, beautiful blue-grey eyes, seeing his own bewilderment, fear, and _excitement_ echoed in there.

“Yeah, Stevie,” Bucky replied, equally breathless, hands coming up to frame Steve’s cheeks, so close Steve could _feel_ the warmth radiating from Bucky’s skin even without Bucky actually closing that final bit of space between them. Steve’s heart was pounding wildly in his chest and he felt a little lightheaded and he hadn’t even _touched_ Bucky yet.

“Can I?” Bucky asked, looking for all the world like he was just as wrecked with nerves and anticipation as Steve was, and Steve couldn’t help but grin. They had no idea how actually touching would affect them, though the twenty-four years of anticipation definitely made it so it would be explosive regardless.

Steve wasn’t sure he could talk anymore, so he settled for nodding jerkily, keeping his eyes steady on Bucky’s, even though the contact was so intense Steve wasn’t sure he could stand it.

They stood like that for a moment longer, breaths mingling and eyes locked together. Steve was almost afraid of what would happen when Bucky’s skin touched his, but he didn’t protest or fight when Bucky took one, final step closer and lowered his hands so that the rough, calloused, _warm_ skin of his palms pressed to his cheeks—

There weren’t words to describe the feeling that filled Steve when Bucky’s skin touched his, but it was overwhelming and _warm_ , and he _swore_ he could feel Bucky’s heart, his _life_ , thrumming in the beat of his own heart. “Bucky,” he breathed, eyes wide and prickling with unshed tears, tipping forward into Bucky’s solid embrace easily when the other man laughed wetly and slipped his arms around Steve’s waist instead.

“Stevie,” Bucky replied shakily, his arms strong and steady around Steve, holding him up and close as Steve pressed his face into the hollow of Bucky’s throat. He didn’t even gasp when Bucky sneakily slipped his hand up the back of his shirt, trailing his fingers over the knobs of Steve’s spine gently, the fingers of his other hand tangling in his hair.

Steve couldn’t believe he was _touching_ Bucky.

He was in his arms, holding him, breathing him in and he was _real_.

“I’ve been waiting for this for years,” he whispered, half to himself, half to Bucky, but he wasn’t surprised the other man heard him and pulled back to smile at him. He slipped his hands from around Bucky’s waist to press his hands to take Bucky’s face in his hands the way Bucky had with him earlier. “I don’t… I can’t believe you’re here.”

Bucky grinned and dipped his head forward a little, resting his forehead against Steve’s. “Believe it, Steve. I’m here.”

Steve closed his eyes and exhaled blissfully. He hadn’t felt this good, this _healthy_ , in years, and having Bucky’s hands on his skin was a sensation he didn’t really understand he missed until he finally felt it. “I don’t think I ever wanna let you go again,” he blurted impulsively, cheeks flushing immediately with embarrassment, though he refused to let go of Bucky.

“Stevie…”

And he couldn’t, he couldn’t let Bucky say anything that would ruin the moment, that would remind Steve of the world beyond the walls of his apartment, of the world that didn’t _care_ about what they wanted. Instead he tipped up onto his toes, heart pounding in his chest and fiery passion burning through his veins as he pressed his lips to Bucky’s.

He held himself stiffly for a moment, unsure of what Bucky would do—for all that they’d talked about this, had admitted they might want this, Steve _really_ wasn’t sure how Bucky would react—and suddenly uncomfortably aware that they were still in _public_ , as queer and grudgingly accepting as his neighborhood might be.

He was so caught up in his own head it took him a few long, tense heartbeats to realise that Bucky was kissing him _back_ , and then—

Then Steve stopped thinking altogether.

Bucky’s fingers were slipping up into Steve’s hair as he stepped closer to him, and Steve could _feel_ him, could feel the warm, steady beat of Bucky’s heart in his every touch, could feel Bucky’s nerves and excitement and couldn’t get enough. They parted for a split-second, barely long enough to _breathe_ before Steve surged up again and slipped his arms around Bucky’s neck, pressing himself against his… _Shíorghrà._

He used to refer to Bucky as his _anam cara_ , but he’d come to realise that such a sweet, but entirely platonic term couldn’t possibly encompass what Bucky was to him.

Bucky, on his end, didn’t even hesitate, didn’t question if they should stop, should slow down. Instead, he moaned quietly against Steve’s lips and opened his mouth, and the kiss went from passionate but contained to _searing_ hot, and all Steve could do was fist a hand in Bucky’s shorn hair and hold on as best as he could, letting his _shíorghrà_ quite literally sweep him off his feet and into his apartment.

He held on, because he was still _so scared_ that if he let go, it would turn out Bucky wasn’t real at all, and Steve was dreaming after all.

Bucky seemed to _know_ , seemed to understand Steve’s fear and apprehension, and slowed the kiss before he leaned back, smiling gently at him, rubbing his thumb across Steve’s lower lip gently. “I’m here, Steve,” he repeated quietly, the words breathed into the miniscule space between them. “I’m here, I love you, and I’m not going anywhere.”

Steve’s heart stuttered at the words, and Steve gaped for a moment before he lunged at Bucky again, wrapping his arms around the other man in a tight, desperate embrace, pressing their lips together again. “Bucky,” he gasped against the other man’s lips, digging his fingers into Bucky’s strong shoulders. “Bucky. Bedroom.”

Steve whined when Bucky pulled back, intensely gratified to see Bucky’s pupils so wide the black nearly eclipsed the white altogether. “Stevie,” Bucky said, voice rough and clipped. “You sure?”

Steve’s heart was pounding unsteadily and he could barely breathe, but he’d never been so sure of anything in his entire life. “Yeah,” he nodded. “Come on, Barnes. Put your money where your mouth is and take me to bed.”

Bucky barked a laugh and kissed him again, and then proceeded to do just that.

—————

**Steve**

Steve bit down on his lip to keep the loud moan that begged to fall from his lips in and his entire body arched, Bucky’s warm, steady hands the only thing keeping him steady. His entire body was trembling in the aftermath of what Steve was sure was the best sex he was ever going to have, and he swayed a little, threatening to tip sideways from his position straddling Bucky’s lap.

Bucky caught him before he could fall, sitting up and steadying him in one smooth move, trailing his hand up from Steve’s tailbone to his neck, so he could tug Steve closer for a soft, lazy kiss.

Steve hummed contently into the kiss and draped his arms around Bucky’s shoulders, pressing his entire body firmly into Bucky’s, taking full advantage of the fact that he could _touch_ him. He got lost, with moments, in the feel of their skin sliding together, warm and slick with sweat, bodies loose-limbed and relaxed in a way Steve can’t ever remember experiencing before.

“I love you,” he breathed against Bucky’s lips, barely allowing himself the luxury of pulling away to actually _say_ the words. “That was… We gotta do that again. You can’t leave, ever, you need to stay so we can do that over and over and over.”

Bucky laughed in response and tightened his arm around Steve’s waist. “Sure,” he replied teasingly. “Lemme just tell the army that I can’t come fight for ‘em ‘cause my fella needs my service more.”

Steve nodded and smirked, mumbling, “I think it’s a good excuse,” before Bucky leaned back in and took Steve’s lips in a breathtaking kiss again. Steve sank into it, relishing in his good fortune of coming home early, of having the day off work, for having canceled his plans with Arnie—though admittedly, he could have done that without yelling at him.

He smiled against Bucky’s lips.

Steve hadn’t given much thought to sex in the past, and when he had, it had been a bit of an abstract concept he didn’t have much of an interest in unless it involved Bucky, but he could readily say he was a big, _big_ fan now.

When the kiss broke, Steve inhaled deeply, pushing lightly against Bucky’s shoulders until the taller man relented and let Steve push him down onto his back on Steve’s now sweat-soaked sheets, barely managing to suppress a shiver as Bucky’s fingertips trailed down his back again, tapping each knob in Steve’s crooked spine tenderly.

He looked down at Bucky, whose hair was sticking up in irregular tufts, skin shiny with sweat and stomach splattered with Steve’s release, and Steve _swore_ he’d never seen Bucky look more enticing.

He pressed his hands against Bucky’s chest, smiling broadly before the light caught on the metallic tags which lay around Bucky’s neck—a stark reminder that Steve _couldn’t_ keep Bucky in his bed, in his shoebox of an apartment forever, no matter how much they should both like to.

Bucky smiled, soft and kind, lifting one of Steve’s hands to his lips to press a kiss to his knuckles, something warm and fuzzy in the pit of Steve’s stomach as he did. “I’m going to come back to you,” Bucky said softly, smiling that small half-smile he reserved for Steve.

“You better,” Steve replied, settling his hand on the back of Bucky’s neck, fingers toying with the soft hair there, knowing it made Bucky _melt_.

He leaned down and pressed his lips to the dark mark he left just beneath Bucky’s jaw, mouthing at it wetly until Bucky lost patience and dragged him up with a hand in his hair, pressing heated kisses to his love’s lips. Steve mewled contentedly against Bucky’s lips and loosened his muscles, shifting until he was sprawled across Bucky, sighing and tucking his head beneath Bucky’s chin when the kiss broke.

“Look what I have waiting for me,” Bucky teased gently, hand resting on Steve’s back. “How can I not come back as soon as I can? I’ll shoot my way through any amount of Krauts I have to.”

That was, at least, if not a little disturbing, something.

“You know,” Steve finally said, in an obvious ploy to change the subject, humming contently when Bucky reached up and slipped his fingers through his fingers through his hair. “Much as I’m enjoying myself, I didn’t expect you today, so… I kind of already have plans?”

Bucky raised an eyebrow and smiled wryly. “Are you askin’ or tellin’ me, doll?”

Steve’s cheeks _flushed_ , and he shoved at Bucky playfully. “I ain’t your dame, Barnes,” he growled, swatting at Bucky’s chest before he slumped down, resting his head on Bucky’s chest. “I’m tellin’ ya,” he continued, tapping his fingers on Bucky’s chest slowly as Bucky’s fingers sifted through his hair. “You can come with though. Right up your alley too, you big dope.”

“Yeah?” Bucky hummed happily when Steve tilted his head into his touch. “Where are ya taking me then, doll? I ain’t a cheap date.”

Steve laughed, pressing his smile into the skin over Bucky’s collarbone. “The future.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's all she wrote! 
> 
> The biggest thank you of thank yous to my lovely, amazing, tireless Juulna, who helped me write like.. 90% of this chapter and kicked my ass into gear. I couldn't have done it without her. I hope you enjoy the wonderful artwork by Queerily_Kai and my words to go with it :D 
> 
> Drop us a note!
> 
> Love, Annaelle and Queerily_Kai

## PART II

## ...and when one of them meets the other half, the actual half of himself, whether he be a lover of youth or a lover of another sort, the pair are lost in an amazement of love and friendship and intimacy and one will not be out of the other's sight, as I may say, even for a moment...” 

## ―[Plato](https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/879.Plato)

—————

**_SHATTERING AIR BLOWS DEALT SICILY_ **

**_Sardinia Hit; 45 Planes Bagged In Onslaughts_ **

_ALLIED HEADQUARTERS. NORTH AFRICA, July 6—(B.U.P.)—Allied aircraft of all types teamed up Monday to smash nine Axis invasion base targets in Sicily and Sardinia and to shoot down 45 more enemy fighters in one of the biggest aerial onslaughts in the Mediterranean theatre._

**_Striking a Series of Devastating Blows at Axis Air Power_ **

_U.S. Flying Fortresses fighting against three-o-one odds bombed Gerbini airdrome in Sicily into ruins, while more than 60 Liberator bombers from the Middle East dumped almost 375,000 pounds of explosives on the Sicilian terminal of Messina, causing vast damage._

_Thirty enemy aircraft were destroyed in 15 minutes of fighting when less than 30 unescorted Flying Fortresses were attacked by about 100 enemy fighters over the Sicilian airfield of Gerbini._

**_Assistance From the Ground_ **

_… unconfirmed reports state that a small specialised unit of U.S. Army snipers infiltrated Gerbini airfield before U.S. Flying Fortresses dropped their explosives to ensure mission success… Eyewitness accounts suggest snipers kept many defense pilots and aircrafts grounded, allowing for maximum destruction of the airfield._

—The Montreal Daily Star, Tuesday, July 6th, 1943 

—————

### Camp Lehigh, Wheaton, New Jersey, United States of America  
Early July 1943

New Jersey.

Steve stood by his decision that nothing good would ever come from New Jersey, and after a week of basic training and three weeks of training in hand-to-hand with Agent Carter and some incredibly sour-faced British Special Agents, Steve was more than willing to count Basic Army Training amongst those terrible things that only originated in New Jersey.

Steve had never been this _sore_ and _tired_ in his life, and considering he’d survived both rheumatic _and_ scarlet fever, Steve was pretty sure that meant something.

Looking back through the memories of his first week in basic, he was surprised he’d been able to stand up at all half the time, much less perform the physically demanding drill exercises that Agent Carter had been coaching them through. He remembered the grenade with stunning clarity though—a bright, unexpectedly stark imagine in a series of memories clouded with a thick haze of exhaustion.

He didn’t think he’d really thought about it at all.

His body had moved without any sort of thought process, had curled up on top of the hard, sharp edges of the grenade. He’d not even realized he was shouting at everyone to get back until he caught sight of Agent Carter’s wide eyes and red lips parted with surprise. The grenade had dug painfully into his ribs until someone had clued him onto the fact it was a dummy grenade.

He’d carried the bruises of that _test_ for a week.

He’d been moved to another barrack that same day, separated from the unit of men he’d started training with, slipped into a training program specifically designed for whoever would end up receiving the serum.

He hadn’t expected the additional training, honestly, but Agent Carter had later confided in him that Erskine had negotiated the extra time so that he and his research partners would have just that little but more time to ensure the serum would work perfectly this time.

It hadn’t been easy, but he was done now, and the procedure was happening in a little over 24 hours, and Steve was nearly vibrating out his skin with nerves and excitement while he waited for Colonel Phillips or Agent Carter to come collect him and bring him to the new location.

The door creaked open and Steve tensed, head snapping sideways in time to see Dr. Erskine slipping inside with a sheepish smile on his face. “May I?” he asked kindly, gesturing to the bed opposite Steve’s.

“Yeah,” Steve nodded shakily. “Yeah, of course.”

Erskine smiled and sat, setting the bottle and two glasses beside him as he did. “You seem uneasy,” the older man observed keenly, before slipping his glasses from his nose and wiping them delicately with a pocket handkerchief.

Steve smiled tightly. “Just got the jitters, I guess.”

Erskine laughed and shook his head a little as he slipped his glasses back onto his nose. “Me too,” he admitted wryly. “Me too.”

“Can I ask you a question?” Steve blurted, twisting his fingers together on his lap nervously. He _wanted_ to hear the answer to the question that had been bouncing through his head ever since he’d been picked, but he was also kind of wary of what the answer was going to be.

Erskine smiled indulgently. “Just the one?”

“For now,” Steve grinned, shrugging. He took a moment, trying to find the right words to ask what had been bothering him since day one.

“Why me?” he eventually said, biting down on his lower lip immediately after. There was a myriad of unspoken words behind the simple question, a lifetime of rejection and hurt and inadequacy.

_Why the queer Irish kid from Brooklyn? Why the poor orphan who was in such poor health he was destined to be no more than a burden on society? Why him? Why would Erskine pick Steve Rogers when no one ever had before?_

He barely resisted the urge to _squirm_ underneath Erskine’s penetrating, knowing gaze, and kept his eyes firmly locked onto his own hands.

“I suppose that is the only question that matters.” Erskine nodded thoughtfully, tracing his fingers around the bottle’s slim neck before he looked up at Steve and smiled sadly. He tapped his fingers on the bottle again and said, “This is from Augsberg, my city.” The smile on his lips was sad and Steve could tell a world of sadness lay behind Erskine’s eyes. “So many people forget that the first country the Nazis invaded was their own.”

Something in Steve clenched, and he opened his mouth—to say what, he wasn’t sure—but Erskine spoke again before he could even try to speak.

“After the last war, my people…” Erskine began, rubbing his fingers over the bottle tenderly. “My people struggled. They felt weak, they felt small… and then Hitler comes along, with the marching and the big show and the flags and the…” He broke off and waved his hand vaguely, and though Steve couldn’t really understand what it must have been like, seeing your country slowly being taken over by people with ideologies that made you feel sick, he did _understand_.

“He hears of me, of my work,” Erskine admitted, a wry smile on his lips as he shook his head. “He finds me, and he says “You.” He says “You will make us strong.”” The older man sighed and shook his head again. “Well, I am not interested. So he sends the head of Hydra, his research division.” Erskine looked up at Steve and continued, “A brilliant man, a scientist by the name of Johann Schmidt. Now, Schmidt is a member of the inner circle, and he is ambitious.”

Steve swallowed thickly and bit his lip again, unsure why Erskine was telling him this, but also unwilling to miss a single word of what the man was saying.

“He and Hitler share a passion for occult power and Teutonic myth,” Erskine said seriously, wrinkling his nose in distaste. “Hitler uses his fantasies to inspire his followers, but for Schmidt, it is not fantasy. No, for him, it is all _real_.” Steve could _see_ the distaste and the disbelief written plainly in Erskine’s expression, but still he did not interrupt.

He wasn’t sure what this all had to do with him; but Erskine had given him a chance when no one else had, and the very least Steve could do was hear him out.

“He has become convinced that there is a great power,” Erskine said, raising an incredulous eyebrow at his own words. “Hidden in the earth, left behind here by the Gods, waiting to be seized by superior men. So when he hears about my formula, and what it can do…” Erskine shook his head sadly and sighed. “He cannot resist. Schmidt must become that superior man.”

“Did it?” Steve blurted when Erskine fell silent. “Make him stronger?”

Erskine grimaced and nodded. “Ja… but—” he shook his head. “There were other… _effects_. The serum was not ready. But more important—the _man_.”

Steve’s eyes widened in surprised as Erskine swayed forward a little. “The serum amplifies everything that is inside. Good becomes great… Bad becomes worse.” Steve dropped his gaze to the bottle Erskine had delicately placed on the floor by his feet, his stomach twisting itself into knots as he mulled over Erskine’s words.

 _Bad becomes worse_.

He thought about all the times he’d lost his temper, about the vicious words he’d spit at Arnie during their fights, at the hatred he’d felt towards bullies… about the way he loved Bucky even though  Father Byrne had told him hundreds of times that sodomy was a sin.

Every single one of his flaws would be… worse.  

“I don’t know if I—” he started, but Erskine shook his head and smiled.

“Steven, please. I have seen many men vie for my attention, in hopes to be chosen. I know a good man when I see one. This is why you were chosen,” Erskine said, effectively dragging Steve from his downward spiral. “Because a strong man who has known power all his life will lose respect for that power… But a _weak_ man knows the value of such strength…and knows _compassion_.”

Steve frowned, unsure of what to say to that, because while he appreciated the way Erskine had chosen to see him, he wasn’t so sure of himself. “Thanks,” he said, lips quirking up as he looked at Erskine. “I think.”

Erskine chuckled and handed Steve the two glasses, reaching for the bottle of schnapps as soon as Steve had them both securely in his grip.

“Whatever happens tomorrow,” Erskine said quietly, pouring a small amount in each glass. “You must promise me one thing.” Steve nodded lightly, and Erskine smiled as he continued. “You will stay who you are; not a perfect soldier, but… a _good_ man.”

He tapped his finger against the center of Steve’s chest—to his heart—to emphasize his words, and Steve couldn’t help but smile a little.

“To the little guys,” he toasted, holding his glass out until Erskine tapped the glasses together.

Steve lifted his glass, slightly intrigued by the sharp, spicy scent of the schnapps, before Erskine made a disgruntled noise and swiped the glass out from under Steve’s nose. “No, no, no,” he shook his head, “What I am doing? You have procedure tomorrow. No fluids.”

Steve almost whined in disappointment, pouting a little as Erskine poured the contents of Steve’s glass into his own. “Alright,” he sighed. “We’ll drink it after.”

Steve nearly laughed at the downright scandalized expression on Erskine’s face as the older man shook his head. “No. I don’t have procedure tomorrow.” He lifted the glass to his lips and muttered, “Drink it tomorrow, I drink it now.”

Steve couldn’t bite back a small chuckle at that, and Erskine grinned back before he got to his feet.

“I am also to inform you that our procedure tomorrow will take place in Brooklyn,” Erskine said as he finished the glass. “I understand it is your home, yes?”

Steve nodded uncertainly, eyeing Erskine speculatively. “Yeah…”

Erskine nodded. “There is a car waiting for you. You are free to spend the night in your home. There will be another car to bring you to the procedure tomorrow.”

“Oh,” Steve breathed, the knots in his stomach easing a little. “That’s—I…”

Erskine just smiled and patted his hand on Steve’s should in reassurance. “Worry not, Steven. All will be well.”

—————

Being in his small, shoebox apartment felt odd, and Steve wasn’t sure what to make of the feeling.

Agent Carter, who had accompanied him on the ride from Camp Lehigh back to Brooklyn, had informed him that the SSR had ensured his rent had been paid, to ensure that Steve would have a place to come home to, should there be a significant time gap between finishing his training and receiving the serum.

As it turned out, the gap had been reduced to a single night, but Steve was grateful for the consideration nonetheless. He’d not been sure he’d ever see these four walls again, but now that he stood there, he wasn’t sure if he _fit_ this space anymore.

It had become a haven for him after his mother had passed away, a place that was _Steve’s_ —something he’d only really shared with Bucky. He probed at the bond almost unintentionally, a harsh breath falling from his lips when he felt the air hum around him, the hair on the back of his neck rising slowly.

A smile rose to his lips and he turned, heart stuttering in his chest briefly when he caught sight of Bucky, eyes dark and hair mussed, dressed in army fatigues that were covered in dirt.

“Buck,” he whispered, smiling brightly despite himself, and beyond grateful he’d changed out of his own Army fatigues before he’d come home. “I missed you.”

Bucky’s eyes were still dark, hooded with the memory of the horrors he must have been forced to witness overseas on battlefields so far away that Steve wouldn’t be able to imagine them even in his wildest, darkest nightmares. He was under no illusion that war was a mess from start to finish, and that no matter what, innocents got hurt.

He wished there was a way he could have spared Bucky.

“Heya Steve,” Bucky said quietly, smiling tightly. “I don’t got very long, doll. I gotta join the 107th for a few missions in a bit, so I’m not gonna have a lot of downtime for the next few weeks.”

Steve’s stomach clenched a little with nervous energy and fear, and he briefly wondered how much of that was his and how much of it was Bucky’s. The bond had grown exponentially stronger after they’d met and touched and… Steve’s cheeks flushed and he bit his lips.

They had had exactly one visit like this one, when Bucky had arrived in England, just before he’d gotten his first mission with the specialized team of snipers they’d put him in. Of course, Steve wasn’t supposed to know about that—classified information and all—but Bucky had confided in him when he’d spent the night before he got on the boat to England, and Steve was glad he knew.

They still couldn’t really touch, but the bond no longer snapped if Steve brushed his fingers over where Bucky’s arm would be if he really was there.

“Oh,” he belatedly replied, dropping down onto the sagging couch. “You’re okay though?”

Bucky settled beside him, entire body turned towards Steve. “Yeah,” he smiled tightly. “I just… I wanted to see you before we moved out again.” There was something he wasn’t telling Steve, something that very clearly _bothered_ him, so much so that it _itched_ in the back of Steve’s brain too.

“That bad?” he asked, lifting his hand to brush it over Bucky’s cheek. Of course, Steve didn’t feel more than the ghost of a touch beneath his palm, but Bucky tilted his head into it almost like he could feel it properly anyway, his eyes drifting shut briefly.

“It’s not good,” Bucky finally admitted, sighing heavily. “I just got a bad feeling about it.”

They were silent for a moment before Bucky added, “I’m gonna be fine, I got a great unit watching my back…” He smiled at Steve and shook his head. “I’m just maudlin’, Stevie, ignore me.”

“You always were a bit of a maudlin’ dope.” Steve nodded with faux-seriousness, grinning broadly when Bucky squawked in protest—it had clearly gotten Bucky’s mind off of whatever issue he was facing back in Europe, and it did an excellent job of keeping Steve’s mind off of the procedure he’d be going through in the morning.

“Rather be a dope than a punk,” Bucky laughed, pulling himself up onto the couch properly, looking at Steve with a look of such fondness and love that it took Steve’s breath away for a moment.

“I love you,” Steve admitted in a hushed whisper, the need to _say_ the words out loud making his entire body _itch_ , because he needed Bucky to know, he _needed_ to make sure that Bucky knew he was the most important person in Steve’s life, and that… that if something went wrong during the procedure…

He just needed him to know.

Bucky’s smile softened and he brushed his hand across Steve’s cheek in a ghost of a touch before he murmured, “I love you more. I’m coming home to you, Stevie. End of the line.” They slid closer together on the couch, entangling with each other as much as they could, even though they could only feel a hint of touch.

“End of the line… Promise?” Steve muttered quietly, keeping his gaze locked on Bucky’s.

“I promise,” Bucky replied immediately, stroking his hand up and down Steve’s arm. “I promise.”

—————

### Secret S.S.R. Base, Brooklyn, New York City, United States of America  
12 July 1943

Steve was still a little overwhelmed by the clandestine nature of their arrival at the base, and resorted to simply following Peg—Agent Carter, because at least she seemed to know where they were going and what to do once they got there.

The older woman behind the counter had unnerved him with the way she had looked at him, her pale eyes following his every move until they’d rounded a corner and had stepped into the steel elevator that brought them down to a basement level filled with activity.

Everyone in the large, oval room stopped in their tracks when Steve stepped out of the elevator and put his hands on the iron railing that separated the walkway from the hustle and bustle in the pit. Steve’s attention had briefly been drawn to the large, green… _coffin_ in the middle of the room, and somewhere in the back of his mind, a voice that reminded him remarkably of Bucky’s protested loudly at the idea of having to go anywhere near that thing.

The amount of eyes on him made his skin crawl and all of the nerves he’d securely buried beneath a pile of happy memories with Bucky and his _mam_ burst right back out. He exhaled a shuddering breath and then let Agent Carter guide him down the steps, her heels clacking against the metal noisily.

When they reached the bottom, Erskine was waiting for them, and the nervous fluttering in his stomach eased a little at the sight of the older man’s kind smile. “Good morning,” Erskine greeted them, shaking Steve’s hand tightly, almost like he wanted to reassure Steve with his touch.

The touch _did_ actually ground Steve a little, and he breathed more easily when the man let go and gestured to the machine that would either make him… _something_ , or kill him.

“Are you ready?” Erskine asked, raising an eyebrow at Steve expectantly.

Steve nodded shakily, although he was feeling distinctly like he was about to throw up. He resisted the urge to just close his eyes and attempt a visit to Bucky—it would weaken him far too much to undergo the procedure with any chance of success, and as nervous and apprehensive as he was, Steve didn’t want to back out now.

“Good,” Erskine nodded. “Now take off your shirt, your tie and your hat.”

Steve floundered for a moment, fumbling with his buttons before he realized that he needed to change the order in which he removed said garments unless he’d get all tangled up and make a fool of himself. He handed the nurse who stood beside him his hat, feeling slightly reassured and entirely flustered when she smiled at him.

He fumbled through unbuttoning his shirt and undid his belt and took off his shoes too at Erskine’s direction, before he climbed onto the machine. His heart was pounding and he wanted nothing more than to be back in his old shoebox of an apartment again, curled up on the couch with Bucky as they had been last night—he wished he’d told Bucky he loved him a million more times—

The leather was cool and slightly sticky against his skin, and he felt like the walls of the coffin—because that’s what it was, honestly—were closing in on him.

“Comfortable?” Erskine asked with a smile, resting his hand on Steve’s bicep comfortingly.

Steve nodded, biting his lip before he joked, “I’ve been more uncomfortable. Did you save me any of that schnapps?”

Erskine sighed theatrically and shook his head, offering Steve a sheepish grin as he admitted, “Not as much as I should have. Sorry. Next time.” Without looking away from Steve, he called, “Mr. Stark? How are your levels?”

Steve blanched, gaping up at Erskine—he couldn’t possibly mean _Howard Stark_ , could he? His question was answered by the man himself, who popped up beside Erskine with the biggest, most excited grin of anyone in the room. “Levels at 100%,” he said. “We may dim half the light in Brooklyn, but we are _ready_.”

Steve swallowed, because _Christ_ , that man looked positively _giddy_.

Things moved very quickly all of a sudden, and before he knew it, Erskine was addressing the men and women in the viewing area while nurses busied themselves around Steve, placing vials with clear blue liquid into the sides of the machine.

He swallowed nervously when a nurse walked up to him with a large, ominous needle in her hand, but ground his teeth together and refused to even flinch when she injected him with it.

“That wasn’t so bad,” he joked half-heartedly when Erskine appeared next to him again.

Erskine looked at him with a worried furrow in his brow and shook his head. “Steven, that was penicillin.”

Steve tried for a smile, but he could tell Erskine didn’t buy a second of it. Thankfully, he didn’t call Steve’s bluff and focused on the rest of the room, initiating a countdown that made Steve’s heart pound faster and his head spin with nervous energy.

Two pads filled with at least a dozen needles each pressed against his biceps, and he could feel similar pads lower themselves over his chest, stomach and legs too, the sharp point of the needles just barely not breaking skin. He inhaled deeply and closed his eyes, focusing on Bucky, on the memory of his arms around Steve, on the way the bond had felt muted ever since Bucky disappeared yesterday—

He barely heard Erskine give the go-ahead, but he knew it must have happened, because suddenly there were dozens of needles pressing into his skin, pushing a thick, foreign liquid into his veins and muscles. Steve’s head was swimming and he swore he could almost _feel_ every drop of the serum travel through his body, latching onto everything he was and _pulling it apart_.

Suddenly the pod—the _coffin_ —moved, doors slipping closed over his head, locking him in, and Steve’s breath caught, because he couldn’t— _he couldn’t—they couldn’t—he wasn’t dead yet, he didn’t deserve to be in a coffin yet—_

“Steven?”

A knock broke him from his panic-induced spiral, and Steve could barely make out Erskine’s voice—he was standing on Steve’s bad side, damn it—when he asked, “Can you hear me?”

“It—it’s probably too late to go to the bathroom, right?” he quipped, trying to keep his mind _off_ the fact that he was locked in a goddamned green coffin.

He didn’t receive a reply, but he didn’t mind overly much. He’d figured out that the best way to counteract his panic was to seek refuge in the corner of his mind that was linked to Bucky—because even if Steve couldn’t muster the strength he needed to visit Bucky, he could still _feel_ him, could still feel the bond between them pulsate with life and comfort.

The pod began to light up, and though Steve had already closed his eyes, all he could make out was _bright, blinding_ white, even as he desperately hung onto the bond to keep himself calm. It didn’t hurt beyond the punctures made by the needles initially, and Steve had withdrawn so deep into his head that he barely noticed the ache at first.

It wasn’t until—

_“Steve! Stevie!”_

Steve’s eyes snapped open, and though he was still surrounded by blinding light, somehow he could see Bucky as clearly as if he stood before him. “Bucky!” he yelled back, over the loud hum of the machine, over the deafening rearrangement of his very cells. “Bucky, what are you—”

He broke off with a cry of agony, feeling like he’d been struck by lightning and pulled apart at the same time, like his spine was breaking in a hundred little pieces and putting itself back together at the same time. He cried, because he was _hurting_ , he was _in pain_ , and he could _see_ Bucky right in front of him, crying and screaming too, blood running from his nose as he clawed at whatever was keeping him from reaching Steve.

“Bucky!” Steve screamed, clawing at the walls surrounding him, keeping him _trapped_ , because something was hurting Bucky, something was _killing_ him, and Steve _couldn’t get to him_. His own pain was inconsequential, because Bucky was in trouble, and Steve _needed_ to get to him, needed to find him and get him back _safely_.

“Stevie,” Bucky moaned, and Steve _knew_ , he could tell that Bucky was holding on by the skin of his teeth, could feel that something was weakening the connection, but before he could _do_ something, he was hit by a pain so intense, it felt like someone took a red hot metal skewer and jabbed it through the back his skull, pulsating just behind his eyes, building pressure with each painful, pulsating heartbeat.

“No,” he screamed, straining against the leather that kept him in place. “No, I can do it! I can save him, let me out! Bucky!” His skin was _burning,_ stretching and shrinking back down, going from too loose to too tight, and still all Steve could focus on was that the bond was growing so weak he could barely feel it at all. “Bucky,” he cried desperately, clawing at the straps and the sides of the pod.

His vision was failing, and he saw more black spots than white light, the deafening noise slowly building to a crescendo until—

“Steve.”

The bond _shattered_ beneath his desperate attempts to hold onto it, to pour _everything_ he had into keeping it stable, and the pain of it was so _blinding_ , it wiped out everything else.

Steve didn’t know how long passed, but he suddenly became acutely aware that… nothing was hurting.

It took him longer still to realize that there were people talking to him, that he needed to _move_ , needed to get to _Bucky—something was wrong, he couldn’t—Bucky was_ —

“No!” he exclaimed, shooting bold upright, narrowly missing Erskine, who had been bent over him,  prodding at his face and shoulder. “I need to—he’s gone—where— _please—”_ He flinched instinctively when he looked around, because everything was so _bright_ , with colors he’d never seen before, and the entire room was overly _loud_ and _deafening_.

“Steven,” Erskine spoke urgently when Steve slumped forward and moaned, clutching his head in his hands. “Steven, what is wrong? Tell me, so I can fix it, yes?”

“My soulmate,” Steve groaned, “I can’t—he’s gone. You took him from me. I can’t feel him anymore.”

Before Erskine could say anything, the observation deck exploded into sharp pieces of glass and metal, showering down on everyone who had flooded into the pit with them, fire licking at the remains of the wooden benches as thick smoke billowed towards the ceiling.

Steve looked up just in time to see a man pull a gun.

—————

**_NAZIS IN NEW YORK – MYSTERY MAN SAVES CHILD_ **

**_By P. Hornbuckle_ **

_NEW YORK — The People of Brooklyn saw firsthand the fight between good and evil when a Nazi Spy was cornered in the heart of New York. To witnesses surprise and disbelief, a real hero soon arrived in time to save the people of this great city…_

—New York Examiners’ Vol. XCVII, no. 33.634, July 12th, 1943

—————

“With all due respect to the Colonel,” Brandt had said, leaning in eagerly as he spoke to Steve. “I think we may be missing the point. I’ve seen you in action, Steve. More importantly,” he pulled a newspaper seemingly out of nowhere, pushing it eagerly into Steve’s hands, ignoring the way Steve’s breath caught a little at the headline followed by the image of himself. “The _country_ has seen it. The enlistment lines have been around the block since your picture hit the newsstands.”

He clapped Steve on the shoulder jovially and smiled. “You don’t take a soldier, a _symbol_ , like that and hide him away in a lab. Son, do you want to serve your country on the most important battlefield of the war?”

Steve stared at the man numbly, breathing in steadily and evenly, because he could do that now, without issues. He could hear, see, breathe… he could do everything a regular man could and more, and yet, it didn’t feel like enough anymore.

What did it matter when he didn’t have Bucky anymore?

“Sir,” he said levelly. “That’s all I want.”

Brandt smiled broadly and clapped his hand on Steve’s shoulder again. “Then congratulations. You just got promoted.”

—————

Steve didn’t mean to let it get this far.

He’d been traveling for just over three weeks when he caught himself sitting on the bathroom floor, hands pulling on his hair _hard_ , because he _still couldn’t do it_.

He couldn’t _find_ Bucky, couldn’t _feel_ him, couldn’t _touch_ the bond, but—

 _He needed to_.

He’d _never_ been without Bucky before in his life, not truly, and so far, he found the experience severely lacking. He had gone through the motions, doing as Senator Brandt had asked of him, because at least then he was being useful—at least then, he didn’t have so much time to _think_.

He’d never truly been alone in his own head before.  

It was, quite honestly, a terrifying experience.

Being alone in his head meant the thought of being ‘cured’ of his homosexuality had crossed his mind. It meant the possibility that he’d been truly insane all along had crossed his mind, and now he didn’t even have Dr. Erskine to confide in anymore.

He’d have preferred to talk to Agent Carter over any of the people in the USO tour.

He didn’t mind most of the girls, since they seemed to have understood he was in no way interested in fooling around backstage, but there were always a few who pushed their luck, when all Steve really wanted was to be left alone.

“Time to go, big guy,” Michael—the man who played Hitler—called from the other room, knocking on the bathroom door impatiently. “We gotta go on in two hours.”

Steve exhaled a shuddering breath and rubbed his hands over his face, entirely unsurprised to pull them back wet with tears. “I’m coming,” he called, shakily getting to his feet and crossing to the wash table to splash some water in his face.

Captain America couldn’t be as numb and unfeeling as Steve Rogers.

For the time being, he needed to push Steve Rogers aside.

—————

### U.S. Army Camp, Italy  
October 1943

Steve didn’t even mind the heckling.

Honestly, if pressed, Steve would even admit he deserved the heckling. Here he was, after all, the pinnacle of health and strength, and all he’d amounted to was being a glorified showgirl. They’d shown him the newsreels and the comic books, but it didn’t honestly feel like he was making much of a difference or a sacrifice—not like the men here were.

He’d hidden backstage with his sketchbook on his lap, finishing the quick sketch of a monkey on a unicycle, because he’d never felt like one more than he had today, standing before _real_ soldiers with the propaganda he’d been forced to feed the public for months now.

“Hello, Steve.”

He turned sharply, only a little surprised to find Agent Carter behind him, looking entirely too perfectly put together for the front lines. Lord, he swore if he’d ever find a woman attractive, it would probably be Agent Carter. She was strong, beautiful and frighteningly competent, and she was the number one reason Steve knew he hadn’t been ‘cured’.

If he had been, he’d have been halfway in love with this woman already.

“Hi,” he finally replied, glancing back down at his sketch morosely. “What are you doin’ here?”

“Officially,” she replied, moving until she was standing before him, “I’m not here at all.” Steve couldn’t help but smile a little, but the smile disappeared as quickly as it had appeared when she added, “That was quite the performance, _Captain_.”

“Yeah,” Steve shook his head, setting his pencil and notebook aside. “Had to improvise a little… Crowds I’m used to are usually more… well, _twelve_.”

Peggy smiled wryly and leaned casually against one of the tent poles. “I understand you are now “America’s New Hope”? You’ve certainly done well for yourself since we last spoke.” Steve knew she wasn’t serious, but it felt a little too close to mocking, because _she was out there, doing things_ , while Steve was trapped in this circuit.

“Bond sales take a ten percent bump in every state I visit,” he recited dutifully, rubbing at his chest numbly, a little confounded by the dull ache that resonated there.

He hadn’t really been in pain since he’d received the serum.

He hadn’t felt much of anything.

Peggy smiled sadly. “I do think you were meant for more than this, Steve.”

They were interrupted by the harsh siren of a hospital wagon, carrying in more wounded soldiers. Steve barely even heard the sound anymore; it’d been coming and going for hours. “They’ve been through hell,” Steve spat, shaking his head. “I dreamed of this for the longest time—coming overseas, fighting for our freedom, for my country… And now I’m here and I’m wearing _tights_.”

“These men have suffered more than most,” Peggy admitted with a heavy sigh. “These men are part of the unit that fought at Azzano. More than two hundred men went up against a Hydra force weeks ago… less than fifty of them returned. The rest were all killed or captured. From what I understand, the remains of the one-oh-seventh was merged with this unit.”

The bottom of Steve’s stomach dropped and he looked up at her sharply, jumping to his feet immediately. “The one-oh-seventh?” he repeated cautiously, simultaneously hopeful and terrified. It was the first hint of a clue he’d found to what might have happened to Bucky.

Peggy nodded unsurely, but before Steve could _move_ , the dull ache in his chest became a _roar_ , and he doubled over, gasping for breath in a way he hadn’t needed to in three months. “Bucky,” he gasped, recognizing the way the air crackled around him immediately, the way the bond _flared_ in the back of his mind in a way it hadn’t since Steve had tripped out of the pod after receiving the serum.

“Steve?” Peggy sounded slightly frantic and he could feel her hands on his back, but he didn’t _care_ , because when he looked up, Bucky was standing in the entrance of the tent, looking decidedly worse for the wear and just as confused as Steve, but he was _there_ and Steve thought he knew how much he’d missed Bucky, but he’d been wrong.

He’d missed him even more.

“Bucky,” he said again, stumbling forward towards Bucky, reaching out to touch him before he stopped abruptly, hands hovering above Bucky’s shoulders tensely. “You’re here. You’re alive.”

Bucky looked up at him, eyes wide and confused. “Steve… Steve.. I don’t know—my boys. My boys are in trouble. You need to get them out, Steve. He’s gonna hurt them.” Bucky seemed frantic and upset, and there were tears gathering in the corners of his eyes. “Please, Steve. You gotta save them.”

Steve was nodding before he even knew what he was doing. “Yes, I’ll do it, I’ll get them. Anything. Bucky, _please_ … Are you safe?”

Bucky looked up at him, full lips just barely parted, before he nodded shakily. “I think so,” he said quietly. “I didn’t really remember anything but you. I needed you... And then—the one-oh-seventh… They’re my boys. You need to get them before Zola hurts them too.”

“Too?” Steve choked. “Bucky, did he hurt you? Are you with them?”

But Bucky was already fading again, the connection feeble and weak, and before he could say anything more, he was gone again. The connection, thankfully, remained, and Steve nearly wept in relief when the warm, soft spot in the back of his mind remained as it had always been.

Belatedly, he realized that Peggy was still there.

Peggy had just _seen_ him talk to Bucky. Steve’s eyes slid closed with exasperation at himself, because _he should have known better_.

He turned, ready to fight her on whatever opinion she had formed, but all he found was Peggy looking at him with wide, surprised eyes and parted lips. “You—” she stammered. “You have a soulmate. A _true_ soulmate. That’s why you were upset after the serum—something happened to the connection?”

“Wh—what—you _know_?” Steve stuttered in disbelief, eyes wide.

Peggy smiled tightly. “Her name is Angie. She’s an aspiring actress… Lives in L.A.”

“Oh,” Steve said eloquently.

“So what is it that he said?” Peggy pushed gently, stepping closer to him. “It seemed important.”

“He—” Steve shook his head and ran his hands through his hair. “He said something about saving his boys… I think… I think he meant his squad—they were… they joined the one-oh-seventh for a couple of missions. That’s the last thing he managed to tell me before the… Before…”

He broke off and looked away, but it seemed Peggy understood regardless.

“From what we understand,” she began cautiously, “they’re being held in an ammunitions factory thirty miles behind enemy lines… It’s too far; we’d never be able to get in undetected, much less get back out.” Steve had begun moving before she’d even finished talking because _he knew_ where they were now, and he’d promised Bucky.

He’d find a way to make it work.

He knew Peggy was following him as he rushed around, trying to get his things together, desperate to figure out what he needed to get into the factory.

“What do you plan to do?” Peggy demanded exasperatedly. “Walk to Austria?”

“If that’s what it takes.” Steve shrugged, shoving a handful of rations into his bag and grabbing the nearest helmet and the metal shield before he made his way outside, the leather jacket he’d filched from the wardrobe department of the USO tour keeping him relatively dry in the drizzling rain. “I thought you told me that I was meant for more than this.”

He stopped and looked Peggy dead in the eye. “Did you mean that?”

Peggy met his gaze unflinchingly and nodded. “Every word.”

“Then you have to let me go,” Steve pleaded. “Even if he’s not there, the people he cared about, his unit… _They_ are. I can do this, Peggy. I can save them. You gotta let me go.”

Peggy smiled broadly. “I can do better than that.”

—————

**_CONFIDENTIAL TRANSCRIPT – FOR THE EYES OF THE PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA ONLY_ **

**_Official Debriefing of Captain Steven Grant Rogers, a.k.a. Captain America on Unauthorized Azzano Rescue Mission_ **

**_S.S.R. Representatives_ **

  * _Colonel Chester K. Phillips, U.S. Army_
  * _Agent Margret Carter, MI6 liaison_



**_Respondent:_ **

  * _Captain Steven Grant Rogers, U.S. Army_



……

 _PHILLIPS: I think the question that is on all of our minds,_ Captain _, is what the hell you were thinking._

 _ROGERS: To be honest, Sir, I was thinking that the four hundred men that were trapped in a factory, making weapons for the enemy and being experimented on, would be of more use to the Allied Forces if they were… you know, on_ our _side._

_PHILLIPS: Don’t you get smart with me, boy._

_CARTER: Perhaps we should continue, gentlemen. Captain, we would like to know where you gained the knowledge to mount this rescue operation single-handedly._

_ROGERS: (short silence) The men talk. There were a few maps around. It wasn’t hard to figure out._

_PHILLIPS: You could have gotten yourself killed._

_ROGERS: But I didn’t. There are four hundred soldiers out there, ready to serve for their country. The S.S.R. now has their elite sniper unit back too._

_PHILLIPS: Minus our best sniper. Sergeant Barnes continues to be missing in action._

_ROGERS: (silence) I looked throughout the entire factory before it blew. I got everyone out that I could. Bu—Sergeant Barnes wasn’t there anymore. Sergeant Dugan and Major Falsworth informed me that he had been taken to the isolation ward weeks ago, not long after they were captured. It is likely they moved him to another facility._

_PHILLIPS: We’ll have to wait and see. Now, let’s discuss this specialized unit we’re planning for you. We’re putting together the best men._

_ROGERS: With all due respect, Sir. So am I._

—Transcript from S.S.R. Presidential Debriefing Packet, _Captain Steven Grant Rogers on Azzano Rescue_ , November 3rd, 1943

—————

### Europe War Theatre  
November 1943 to December 1944

A burden had fallen from Steve’s shoulders now that the bond had been restored, and he had _proof_ that Bucky was _real_ , and that he hadn’t been an exceptionally detailed figment of Steve’s slightly overactive imagination. The dog tags he had found in the factory had remained in a secret pocket on Steve’s ridiculous suit, and he had told no one about finding them.

He wasn’t sure what they meant—what it meant that he had found them, but not Bucky, but he was fairly certain that Phillips was just going to take it as a sign that Bucky was dead, and Steve _knew_ that he wasn’t. He _knew_ , because the bond was _there_ , in a way it hadn’t been in the first three months after he’d received the serum.

If Bucky was…

Steve would know.

It didn’t mean that Steve didn’t _miss_ him. He still hadn’t been able to visit Bucky himself, and Bucky hadn’t come to him either, and Steve _missed_ him like he missed a limb. He missed him more than he would miss his new, healthy body if it was taken away from him, more than he would miss the opportunity to do right in the world, to make a difference.

Whatever his official orders said, Steve would continue to search every Hydra base for any sign of Bucky, and he _would_ find him. He knew that the boys—Dugan and Morita and Falsworth, Jones and Dernier… They would support him.

They’d help him.

They’d been Bucky’s boys before they’d become Steve’s, after all.

They were Steve’s team now, but they had been part of Bucky’s specialised sniper unit first, and they wanted to find Bucky every bit as much as Steve did.

Steve would do his duty while he did so, would continue to protect and serve as he was born to— _created to—_ do, but he would never lose sight of his own, personal goal. So Steve continued on, and Captain America took flight in his new form, new purpose assigned to him, and he moved on from Azzano, physically if never mentally.

Some part of Azzano would always be with him, he knew, and it would be until he could find Bucky once more. Until he could fix what had been broken. Until he could stop _missing_ Bucky.

And that would never happen until the other half of his soul was found.

—————

If Steve were honest with himself—which was, admittedly, something he tended not to be so very often—he had to admit that he grew to love the newly-minted Howling Commandos swiftly and without very much effort on his part. They were crude and slightly vulgar at times, a tightly knit group of entirely different personalities that somehow worked together.

They were warm and welcoming, but they shared a sense of camaraderie that Steve was not a part of.

Steve didn’t let on that the distance between him and his men _hurt_ , sometimes, because he understood too—he had saved them, but he had not been there fast enough to save Bucky, and Steve was pretty sure they all resented him a little for that.

Even Steve himself.

He didn’t realize how much they had come to mean to him until they were sent onto their first covert mission together. They were sent to sabotage anti-aircraft defenses deep in the heart of Germany, near Berlin itself, ensuring that the air raid planned for the following night, on November eighteenth, would be able to go off without a hitch.

The boys slotted into place in the gap in his life that he hadn’t even known existed.

It was nothing, of course, compared to the gaping hole Bucky had left behind, but Steve was also fairly certain that it was not meant to be. They were not his soulmates, and they were never meant to be.

Nothing could ever replace Bucky.

The men helped though. Jones, Dugan and Falsworth had worked with him, had served with him and had suffered with him in the factory in Austria. They didn’t know Bucky the way Steve did, but that didn’t matter—Steve didn’t know Bucky the way they did.

He formed connections with Jacques Dernier, Timothy Dugan, Jim Morita, Gabe Jones, and James Montgomery Falsworth, and grew to like them.  

He got by.

He’d learned how to talk, walk and act before he’d been sent on his U.S.O. tour, and the skillset was remarkably applicable in everyday situations. He was a good enough actor to be able to get by without causing too much need for concern, and performed his duties adequately enough to get by.

He was fine.

—————

Steve missed Bucky to the point of near-incapacitation whenever he returned to Italy. The push towards Cassino, Italy, pushing the German line further and further back, was hard on him… but even harder on his enemies.

He threw himself at the enemy with a ferocity and determination unmatched by anyone on either side. He kept going and going, even when the Howling Commandos flagged at his side, even when they had to stop for fear of collapse, even when the Invaders started to be replaced by other regiments, other countries’ armies.

For four days, Steve never once stopped, even though he knew he probably should—but he couldn’t. He had to make the ache go away, had to make it stop for _just one minute_.

But it didn’t. Steve continued to miss Bucky, with increasing strength each day.

When the Allies finally landed at Anzio, Italy, on January 22nd, 1944, Steve finally stopped. He was pulled away by the Howlies, forced to eat, forced to sleep, and then they were sent away.

Steve’s relief felt like a betrayal.

—————

Through officer training, through tactics and strategy and weaponry lessons, through sparring and team training, through battle and sabotage and the propaganda machine, Steve missed Bucky.

He missed him just that little bit less when they were blowing up Hydra bases, however, and the absolute glee with which he ran through the bases worried him just a small bit, all the way in the back of his mind.

He knew something wasn’t quite right about the unholy _glee_ it brought him, but as long as he was doing his job and staying focused, making sure everyone was out of the base who needed to be before it blew, making sure they had all of the info or items that were of value to the S.S.R., making sure all of his men were uninjured… well, he didn’t need to look too closely at his feelings, now did he?

—————

**_Celebrations as Rome is liberated_ **

_The people of Rome have crowded onto the streets to welcome the victorious Allied troops. The first American soldiers, members of the 5th Army, reached the centre of Rome late last night after encountering dogged resistance from German forces on the outskirts of the city._

_...Rome is the first of the three Axis powers' capitals to be taken and its recapture will be seen as a significant victory for the Allies and the American commanding officer who led the final offensive, Lieutenant General Mark Clark._

_In a broadcast in the United States this evening, President Franklin D Roosevelt welcomed the fall of Rome with the words, "One up, two to go." But he gave a warning that Germany had not yet suffered enough losses to cause her to collapse._

_...A report from Hitler's headquarters said he had ordered the withdrawal of the German troops to the north-west of Rome in order to prevent its destruction. The statement said: "The struggle in Italy will be continued with unshakable determination with the aim of breaking the enemy attacks and to forge final victory for Germany and her allies."_

_The Pope appeared on the balcony of St Peter's this evening and addressed the thousands of Italians who had gathered in the square. He said: "In recent days we trembled for the fate of the city. Today we rejoiced because, thanks to the joint goodwill of both sides, Rome has been saved from the horrors of war."_

—BBC News, _Liberation of Rome_ , June 5th, 1944

—————

Leaving Italy after liberating Rome had lifted an unimaginable burden from Steve’s shoulders.

He had not _wanted_ to return to the country in the first place, had railed against Colonel Phillips and Peggy and anyone who would listen, had demanded to be sent with the troops to Normandy instead, like he had been planning to for _months_.

Steve had helped plan Operation Overlord and he wanted to see it come to fruition.

He had been overruled, sent to Rome with several camera crews and the cleanest Captain America suit they’d been able to get their hands on. He had done his duty, of course, but had pushed the advance faster than he normally would have, took risks that he normally would not have, but that paid off nonetheless, just so he could _get out_ and back to where he and his team were _really_ needed.

It had almost been worth the dressing down Peggy had given him when they’d returned to base in London, and the disappointed shake of the head that Colonel Phillips had given him before dismissing them after their debrief.

It had almost been worth the concerned looks the Howlies had given him when he declined to go for drinks with them _again_. Steve had only been doing his part, doing his best to win this war for them. Doing his best so that he could get to where he was needed, and so that they could get one step closer to finding Bucky every single day.

They didn’t need to know that he could barely stand to step foot on Italian soil anymore.

No one but Bucky needed to know that, and he wasn’t there to hear it.

He had not expected to grow _angry_ so easily anymore, especially not at Bucky. He hadn’t been really angry with Bucky since he had disappeared when Steve’s _mam_ died, but he was now and… Steve _hated_ that he was angry, because he could tell that whatever kept them apart, it wasn’t Bucky’s fault either.

It wasn’t Bucky’s fault that he’d been captured, that the serum had done something to damage their bond almost irreparably. He couldn’t help but feel frustrated and angry and _afraid_ though.

Feelings didn’t always need to make sense.

—————

The worst thing about being out in the field behind enemy lines were the snipers.

They reminded him of Bucky in an all-too-painful way.

He had a near-breakdown after they encountered the first and Falsworth had taken him out. It was also the first time he had snapped at his unit, barely able to be reminded of his… his Bucky, and the shame of that lost him more sleep than he knew was healthy.

It wasn’t Falsworth’s fault that he was a sniper, the same as Bucky.

It _wasn’t_.

—————

_Soldiers, Sailors and Airmen of the Allied Expeditionary Force!_

_You are about to embark upon the Great Crusade, toward which we have striven these many months. The eyes of the world are upon you. The hopes and prayers of liberty-loving people everywhere march with you. In company with our brave Allies and brothers-in-arm on other Fronts, you will bring about the destruction of the German war machine, the elimination of Nazi tyranny over the oppressed peoples of Europe, and security for ourselves in a free world._

_Your task will not be an easy one. Your enemy is well trained, well equipped and battle-hardened. He will fight savagely._

_But this is the year 1944! Much has happened since the Nazi triumphs of 1940-41. The United Nations have inflicted upon the Germans great defeats, in open battle, man-to-man. Our offensive has seriously reduced their strength in the air and their capacity to wage war on the ground._

_Our Home Fronts have given us an overwhelming superiority in weapons and munitions of war, and placed at our disposal great reserves of trained fighting men. The tide has turned! The freemen of the world are marching together to Victory!_

_I have full confidence in your courage, devotion to duty and skill in battle. We will accept nothing less than full Victory!_

_Good Luck!_

_And let us all beseech the blessing of Almighty God upon this great and noble undertaking._

—General Dwight B. Eisenhower, Supreme Allied Commander Europe, Supreme Headquarters Allied Expeditionary Force, June 6th, 1944

—————

It went on like that, mission after mission, country after country…

With each base searched and blown to smithereens, Steve’s hopes of finding Bucky took a hit. With each time he failed to find him, the pain of Bucky’s absence grew, and Steve wasn’t sure how much longer he’d be able to bear it.

He vacillated between anger, denial, fear, sadness, and more, and nothing could seem to get him out of his downward spiral. Not even when they had been knee-deep in helping the Resistance in France get their uprising off the ground. Not even when they were there for the massive surrender in Aachen, Germany.

Not even when they were on covert operations, or were helping refugees, or were liberating cities from Axis rule, and not even when they were providing very visible distractions during what was being called the Battle of the Bulge.

It seemed like nothing could help him anymore, not even his new friends.

It just wasn’t the same.

Nothing was.

And then… then came the mission with the train in the Alps.

Zola.

—————

**_CLASSIFIED – FOR COL. PHILLIPS’ EYES ONLY_ **

_Colonel Phillips,_

_I am sending this to you outside of the usual channels due to the sensitive nature of the information contained within. It is my understanding that this is something that you would like to review first, before it goes into his official record—if it does at all—though that is something I caution against, and it goes against my oath as a physician. Yet I understand the pressing need in wartime._

_However, it is with great concern that I bring to your attention the actions of Captain Steve Rogers, and my worry for his fitness for duty. He has been displaying an increase in self-destructive habits, including but not limited to: skipping meals, taking extra duty and watch shifts, not sleeping for days at a time, avoiding socialization with the other men in his unit, avoidance of myself and the other medical staff when at all possible, and an increasing quietude that is unnerving and concerning, seen most often in those with shell shock._

_On the field, he displays his usual levels of competence, but he has been making riskier decisions of late, and with increasing frequency, as compared to his earlier missions. As of now, these decisions only put himself at risk, but he is displaying all the signs of someone who no longer cares if he lives or dies. This is something which I strongly advise all due caution towards, as it can lead not only towards the loss of his particular skill set, but will inevitably lead to placing the lives of the men under his command at risk._

_If you wish to speak with me further on this matter, please do so, otherwise I will be submitting an official report within the next 72 hours._

_Regards,  
Dr. Reeves_

_—_ Confidential transcript from S.S.R. personnel files, _Steven Grant Rogers,_ December 1944

—————

### The Whip and Fiddle, London, Great Britain  
5 January 1945

He’d lined up each bottle in front of himself neatly, so he could keep track of his alcohol intake. He was curious to see what it would take to get him drunk, and he doubted he would ever be so desperate for the sweet oblivion of an alcohol-induced stupor as he was right now.

In his one hand, he clutched the glass filled with amber liquid, while he had wound the necklace with Bucky’s tags around his fingers so tightly it threatened to cut off the blood supply. It hurt a little, but Steve didn’t mind. It reminded him he could feel _something_ , at least.

He’d been sick for the first time in a year and a half after watching Phillips interview and break Zola, after badgering his way into the restricted evidence room and reading through the files Zola had been carrying with him when he had been captured. He’d made it three sentences into the report that spelled “ _Obduktion, James Buchanan Barnes, 32557038 – Projekt R, Subjekt #154_ ” before nausea had overwhelmed him and he’d been forced to the nearest washroom.

His German wasn’t the best, but the words post-mortem and ante-mortem were not exactly subtle.

Phillips had sent off an official condolence letter and death certificate to Bucky’s family two hours later.

Steve had elected to find the nearest bar and proceeded to try to get himself absolutely _smashed_. He had not been very successful so far.

“I don’t wanna believe it,” Steve whispered brokenly when the air hummed around him, and Bucky’s familiar shape appeared in the corner of his eye. “I don’t believe them. You can’t be dead. You can’t be, because _I’m_ not dead, and Buck, I’d never be able to live without you.” He didn’t give a shit who heard or saw him—not anymore.

“I  don’t  think  they’re  wrong,  Stevie,” Bucky’s  words  were  soft  and  calm,  but  it  felt  like  Bucky  took  the metaphorical  knife  Hydra  had  plunged  into  Steve’s  chest  and  _twisted_.  “I  don’t  think  I... I  don’t  think  I  made  it  off  Zola’s  table.” Steve  watched,  feeling  slightly  detached,  as  Bucky  arranged himself  on  the chair  beside  Steve’s.  He  looked  better  than  he  had  last  time  Steve  had  seen  him,  but  also  _younger_ ,  somehow,  like  he  was  merging  who  he  had  been  before  the  war  with  who  he  became  during.  

“I’m goin’ after Schmidt,” Steve bit out, knocking back his fifteenth tumbler of whiskey. “I’m going to find them and _burn_ Hydra to the ground for what they’ve done to you. I’m not gonna stop until all of them are dead or captured. I don’t care which.”

His breath caught when Bucky laid his hand across Steve’s, the touch so light Steve could barely feel it at all, and his eyes locked on Bucky’s. “Don’t lose who you are for me,” Bucky insisted. “You’re not an indiscriminate killer. Don’t let vengeance make you one.”

Steve bit down on his lower lip harshly to stop it from trembling, tears burning in his eyes. “Where are you, Buck? I need you.”

Bucky shrugged helplessly. “I don’t know, Steve. I don’t know. But I’m here. I’m always here.”

—————

### The Swiss Alps, Switzerland  
January 12th, 1945

Steve was trembling when he stumbled over to the controls, nausea abruptly welling up from his stomach when he read “ _Ziel: New York City”_ on the screen. He’d known, abstractly, that the bombs in the hold were meant for New York and other large cities on the eastern seaboard, but it was something else entirely to see _his_ city displayed as nothing more than a target on an autopilot.

He also wasn’t exactly sure _what_ had happened to Schmidt, but he was fairly certain the man was as close to entirely dead as he was ever going to be, and therefore didn’t really require more than a passing thought. “Come in,” he said shakily into the radio, swallowing back against his nausea, willing his stomach to keep its thoughts about their situation to itself.

“This is Captain Rogers. Do you read me?”

“Cap!” A relieved voice came over the other end of the wire, and Steve barely made out Morita’s voice from it. “Thank God. We were getting worried. What’s your—”

He cut off abruptly, and for a second Steve feared they’d lost the connection, but then Peggy’s voice came on and Steve relaxed minutely. “Steve? Steve, are you alright?” They’d grown somewhat close, over the past year and a half, had taken comfort in the shared knowledge of a soulbond with one who was incredibly far away.

“Schmidt is dead,” he announced gravely, poking at the controls a little desperately, dread growing in the pit of his stomach. “The plane… it’s a little tough to explain.”

“Give me your coordinates,” Peggy ordered staunchly. “We’ll find you a safe landing site.”

The air grew staticky with electricity again, and Steve exhaled a deep breath he had not even know he was holding when Bucky stepped up beside him. “There’s not gonna be a safe landing,” he admitted slowly, eyeing Bucky nervously, but his _shíorghrà_ only nodded solemnly. “I can try to force it down.”

“No,” Peggy replied immediately. “No, Steve, we’ll get Howard on the line… He—he’ll know what to do.”

Steve swallowed thickly and put his hands on the steering yolk, thumbing off the autopilot. “There’s not enough time. This thing is insanely fast and it’s going for New York… Peggy, I can’t—I gotta put her in the water.” He didn’t pretend they didn’t both know that crashing the plane might very well set off the nuclear weapons it was loaded with.

Crashing the plane down was a suicide-mission.

He barely heard Peggy’s next words, slowly but steadily pushing the yolk down, pushing the plane into a reckless nosedive. “Hey Buck,” he said shakily, tears burning in his eyes as he looked at his _shíorghrà. “_ Does it hurt?”

Bucky smiled sadly and shook his head. “Nah, Stevie. It’ll be just like falling asleep. And I’ll be with you. End of the line, pal.”

Steve barked a wet laugh and nodded. “Peggy?”

“I’m here,” she replied quietly. “Is he with you?”

“Yeah,” Steve chuckled wetly. “Yeah. Promise me you’ll go meet your gal, okay? Don’t delay. God knows I wish I’d have had more time. It’s worth it, Peg.”

“I promise,” Peggy declared, but Steve could tell she was crying too.

And suddenly, all he could see as the plane slammed into the icy waters at dizzying speed, was the tender, saddened look in Bucky’s eyes. And then there was nothing but darkness and the bloodcurdling screech of metal being scrunched violently.

—————

**_A NATION MOURNS: CAPTAIN AMERICA LOST IN ARCTIC_ **

**_War Hero Still Missing after Months of Searching – Now Presumed Dead_ **

_NEW YORK—As of this morning, Captain America, also known as Captain Steve Rogers, was officially declared Presumed Dead. Though extensive resources have been allocated to the search for the plane the Captain was lost in, all search parties have returned grim and empty-handed._

_An official press statement by the Strategic Science Reserve, issued by Colonel C. Phillips, stated that Captain Rogers was likely killed preventing a major nuclear event, bringing down an aircraft loaded with nuclear weapons aimed for our great city._

_Rumour has it that members of the S.S.R. spoke to Captain Rogers on the radio until mere moments before the plane went down; which begs the question why there were no coordinates exchanged._

_…though Howard Stark, of Stark Industries, has issued a statement indicating he has no intention of stopping the search parties. “I intend to find him, and bring him home,” Mr. Stark said in an emotionally charged speech. “For him, and for all soldiers that were lost in the war, we will do everything in our power to return our lost sons home.”_

—The New York Times, April 27th, 1945

—————

### James Barnes’ apartment, Brooklyn, New York, United States of America  
June 2011

There was soft, soothing music playing somewhere, sounding simultaneously close by and far away. He felt slightly lightheaded, and though he hadn’t opened his eyes, Steve could tell something was _different_ , something was _wrong_. He felt odd, ill at ease in his body in a way he hadn’t felt since the Bond with Bucky had briefly snapped and reformed, since the serum had stretched his bones and expanded his skin and healed every broken thing within him.

His body felt simultaneously too big and too small, like it had in those excruciating few heartbeats in the chamber when he had been radiated with vita-rays. Like it had in the moment when his body was suspended between expanding and shrinking, falling apart at the seams while being knitted together again. His skin felt like it didn’t fit his body anymore, and he couldn’t figure out what had happened to make him feel like that again.

He felt unfocused and tired, his mind weary in a way he hadn’t really been in a long time, the way it was when he was recovering from some kind of near-fatal illness, and though he tried to look around the small, brightly lit room he had somehow found himself in, his entire body felt stiff and unused, and his muscles seemed to protest even the smallest movement.

A warm hand suddenly touched his, and if Steve’s mind and body hadn’t been so sluggish, he would have _flinched_ , would have _refused_ , because he’d made up his mind a long time ago, and he didn’t like anyone’s hands on him but Bucky’s and possibly Peggy’s.

A moment later though, the warmth and familiarity of the touch registered in his mind and he _exhaled_ , rolling his head to the side to catch sight of the beautiful icy blue eyes he knew he’d find there.

“Bucky.”

The words were a barely-there exhale, but Bucky heard him and treated him with the biggest smile Steve had ever seen on him before. “Heya Stevie,” he said with a watery grin. “Took you long enough, ya punk.”

“I found you,” Steve said dumbly, his hand moving of its own accord to press against Bucky’s soft cheek.

His mind still felt fuzzy, and he knew he’d done something dumb, as Bucky would so eloquently put it, before he’d punch Steve’s shoulder and kiss him anyway. He _knew_ , however, that that had been his penultimate goal—he’d _needed_ to find Bucky.

Bucky smiled and turned his head to press a kiss to Steve’s palm. “Yeah, you did,” he nodded.

He kept staring at Bucky for a while, feeling a little loopy and more than a little sappy. He’d found Bucky and Bucky was right next to him, with his hand on Steve’s and his lips pressed to Steve’s palm, and Steve couldn’t really think beyond that for a while.

Taking all of that into account though, Steve was still surprised by how long it took him to notice the general _weirdness_ of the room he’d found himself in.

The walls were decorated with what looked like movie posters and pictures and rainbow flags, and the room was scattered with what looked like various trinkets. Steve didn’t recognise _any_ of it. “Buck,” he said slowly, blinking lazily at his soulmate when he hummed in reply. “Where are we?”

Bucky’s smile turned a little bittersweet and Steve felt a little confused before Bucky leaned down to press his lips to Steve’s in a soft kiss.

“The future, Stevie,” he replied quietly after he’d pulled away. “We’re in the future.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some explanation; since the ending is somewhat confusing. 
> 
> Bucky, sadly, died while on Zola's table. In this universe, he and Steve were being experimented on at the same time (hence Bucky showing up all delirious while Steve's is in Erskine's machine) and the strain of it was too much on their soulbond, which briefly shattered. The Bond was all that was keeping Bucky alive at that point, so without it, he died. 
> 
> It wasn’t until he as reborn in 1987 that his soul was able to find its connection to Steve again!
> 
> This whole premise stands and falls, of course, with the idea that time is not linear, and that soulbonds transcent all that we know. 
> 
> I could not explain this all in the fic, since neither of the boys know what happened, but this was in my head as I wrote it. 
> 
> Hope that clears it up!

**Author's Note:**

> Some world building: 
> 
> True soulmates are able to connect their minds (souls) and 'visit' each other. They can see their surroundings through their soulmate's eyes. Soulmates are so rare that the world has decided they don't really exist at all, merely as an old wives tale. 
> 
> The connection varies in strength depending on whether soulmates have bonded already in previous lives.


End file.
